Because I'm Falling Down
by JacksBoonie
Summary: Part 1: Sam gives up eternal happiness and passes through the levels of heaven to make it back to earth and his brother. DeanCas. Part Two: Sam is dying...again. Now he has to ask Lucifer for a favor and risk becoming the devil's puppet. DeanCas. SamGabe.
1. Part 1: Chapter 1

AN: So, I've had this idea for a while. And last week's episode just spurred me all the more (and actually gave me a few decent ideas). Also, **_Menthol Pixie_'s **awesome fics have made me want to post _Supernatural _fic. Thanks, dah-ling! Anyway, on to the "legal" stuff.

Warning: This contains slash. Mild slash, but slash nonetheless. So, eyes off if you don't like it.

Disclaimer: I do not own the television show _Supernatural_. I do not own the characters of the television show _Supernatural_.

And there you have it. Enjoy!

_Because I'm Falling Down_

Chapter One:

For a series of agonizing moments, as Dean cradled his younger brother's unresponsive body to his chest, he was worried that Sam's life hadn't mattered enough, that he would end up in hell just as the elder of the two had. But with three brief words, Castiel put his concerns at . . . a _relative_ ease.

"He's with us."

And when the concern and anxiousness left, anger consumed. "Fix this," he growled, shifting Sam in his arms. "Fix this _now_."

"I'm sorry," Castiel said, his monotonous tone conveying little apology.

"Bullshit." The word, no more than a whisper, filled the bright alley as if it had been screamed. Funny that a place like that should seem so bright, what with Dean's life turning to ashes. "You said you'd look after him. You _should _have been here. I _trusted_ you."

"There was nothing I could do. He left, and with the insignia I couldn't track him fast enough."

"I don't want to hear you damn excuses! I want you to make this _right_! Bring him _back_!"

Castiel's blank eyes stared at the eldest—and now the _only—_Winchester boy. "It can't be done."

"What do you _mean _'it can't be done'? Don't say that to me, Cas. Don't you dare—"

"_Dean_!" Castiel rarely raised his voice, and when he did, it was usually just before he smote something—or some_one_. "It _can't_ be done!"

"Why?" Dean was hysterical, desperate. Already the color in Sam's cheeks was fading, his skin becoming unnaturally cold under his fingers.

"It's . . . _heaven_." Castiel had no words to describe the place where he was from—the home he had given up to stay with the Winchester brothers, to stay with . . . . And now Sam was in heaven. In _his_ place. Was this what jealousy felt like? "No one _leaves _heaven of their own accord."

"_You _did," the young man argued.

"Angels don't have free will like humans do. And when we get desperate enough . . . we do desperate things," Castiel explained, his resolve weakening with every look from those eyes. "Humans, given a choice, will choose heaven. Ripping them out of that—out of _perfect happiness_ . . . Dean, it just isn't done."

"Well, I _want it done_!" Dean shouted, his voice hoarse. "I want him _back_, and I want it done _now_. You owe me!"

A cold, harsh wind kicked up the debris around them, causing it to smash and clatter against worn and crumbling brick. Dean closed his eyes against shattered glass and splintered wood, torn paper and projectile plastics. Only when the wind died abruptly did he dare to look up again.

Castiel was gone.

0 o 0 o 0

Sam remembered nothing of pain. He remembered nothing of demons and monsters, blood and possessions, angels and apocalypses. He remembered Jess's eyes as they opened for the first time to greet a new day, his mother's sweet lullaby before he fell asleep, his father's smile when things were quiet enough for him to appreciate the A's on his report cards.

He remembered Dean. And he felt an overwhelming sense of relief that his brother was safe, followed by a reassuring sense that he would see him again someday. He knew Dean would live his life despite the younger man's absence.

_Yeah, right_.

He shook the voice from his subconscious away, concentrating on his surroundings.

Overall, he knew that he was happy—a kind of happy that he had never felt; not with his family, not with his friends, not even with Jess. But he was here, now. No need to dwell on the past. Here, there was no past. There was no future. Sam just _was_. And he couldn't think of anything that would make him happier.

Except . . . .

0 o 0 o 0

"Are you sure this is what your brother would want?"

Dean nearly jumped out of his skin, the Impala swerving to the other side of the road before evening out. The young man glared at his newly-acquired passenger. Skipping the dropping-in-on-people-while-they're-driving-or-taking-a-shower-for-that-matter-is-bad-because-of-the-whole-dying-thing speech, he took a deep breath and faced the road again, trying not to look at the body of his younger brother in his rear-view mirror.

"I've done it before," he said defiantly, "and I've paid a higher price than anything you can throw at me. So just . . . take what you want and put Sam where he belongs."

"What's to say he doesn't belong in heaven?" Castiel asked curiously, furrowing his eyebrows and studying the young man's profile as he drove. Could Dean really rip his own brother out of eternal happiness for his own selfish reasons?

"Because I'm still here," Dean said simply. "Because I'm still _alive_." His eyes involuntarily wandered to the rear-view mirror, where the pallid face of his brother stared back at him. "And if you don't do something, I'll find someone who will."

The angel clenched his jaw, facing forward. "You can't make deals with demons about souls that have already found their place in heaven."

"I told you, I've done it before."

"No, you haven't." Castiel's harsh words sounded dull in the small compartment of the car, small and not anything like an angel's voice should. "Your brother's soul was _trapped _the first time you brought him back."

" 'Trapped'?" Dean's voice broke on the word. He didn't want explanations. He wanted his brother.

"He died unexpectedly, _violently_. He was already making the transition into an angry spirit. If you hadn't made that deal, he would have been your next hunt." Castiel was trying to hit his point home, trying to make Dean see what would happen to his brother if he did what was asked—_commanded—_of him. "This . . . was not a pointless death. Sam sacrificed himself to keep you safe. Bringing him back would only cause unnecessary pain and grief." The angel sighed in a rare show of humanity. "He's happy, Dean. He's _very, very _happy. Is that not enough for you?"

Dean gritted his teeth painfully. He knew he would sound selfish and childish. He knew this would make him the _worst _brother imaginable. But he couldn't stop himself from saying, "No." He shook his head. "It's not."

0 o 0 o 0

Slender fingers slipped into Sam's hand, warming his entire being instantly. He knew before he turned who was standing at his side.

"Jess," he sighed with contentment, squeezing the hand in his. She smiled, and his world brightened all the more. "You're here."

"I'm where ever you are, Sam," Jess replied quietly, leaning her head against his shoulder. "I always have been."

"And now we're together."

The young woman looked up. "Are you happy?"

"Of course," Sam said without hesitation. Almost immediately, a voice echoed from somewhere distant.

_Liar_.

Doubt crept across Sam's face, and Jess squeezed his fingers. "Sam?"

_Why are you here?_

"I like it here," Sam answered the voice that sounded surprisingly like—

"Good. I'm glad." Jess smiled again. "You can stay here. You can be happy."

_You sure about that?_

"Yeah." Sam was becoming increasingly worried. Was heaven supposed to be like this? Temptation? Voices that sounded like—

"Your parents want to see you, Sam." Jess interrupted his train of thought.

This caught the young man's attention. "My parents?"

"Yes."

"I can see them?" A smile crept onto his face. After everything—after the loss and hurt—he was finally going to be with his family.

_Your 'family'?_

Sam's chest tightened. Family . . . Everyone except—

"All you have to do is let go."

The Winchester boy's eyes searched the young woman's. " 'Let go'?" he repeated.

Jess smiled sympathetically. "You've been thinking about him since you arrived."

Sam didn't need to ask who "him" was, and he certainly didn't have the urge to deny the statement.

"He's my brother," he replied simply, shrugging.

Jess nodded. "And he always will be. But the longer you hold on to him, the more difficult it will be."

"For _me_?"

The young woman shook her head. "For _him_."

0 o 0 o 0

Dean pounded on the door of his friend's house with waning patience. Breath held, he closed his eyes, preparing himself for the inevitable conversation—one that, unfortunately, he'd had before. Moments passed, and as Dean shifted his weight from foot to foot and raised his fist to pound on the door again, it suddenly opened. Bobby sat in his wheelchair, sweats and T-Shirt wrinkled, disheveled hair hidden under a hastily arranged baseball cap.

"Dean?" the older man groaned tiredly, barely suppressing a yawn. "It's—" He checked his digital watch. "—three in the morning. What the hell—"

"Gonna need a bed, Bobby," Dean said quickly, softly.

Bobby searched the young man's face, his teeth gritting as he noticed the lack of the other half of the Winchester duo. "Where's your brother?"

Dean hesitated. "He's in the car."

Bobby's teeth creaked. "Why ain't he here with you at my door, waking me at this ungodly hour?"

There was silence for a long moment as the young man considered what to say. "Because I have to carry him in, Bobby."

The older hunter bit the inside of his cheek, drawing blood. The bitter taste kept his tears at bay—for the time being. "Bring him in."

0 o 0 o 0

Once Sam's dead weight was in his brother's arms, Dean had a hard time putting him down. Not even Bobby's gentle insistence could break him away after his arms gave out and he was forced to take the body to the spare bedroom.

"Dean, why don't you get some rest?"

"Not tired."

"Then how 'bout something to eat?"

"Not hungry."

"Then how 'bout a beer?"

"Not thirsty."

Bobby sighed. "Then how 'bout a God-damn word with a tired, crippled man."

This got Dean's attention, and as he turned toward the other, Bobby was privy to a look that no one in the world—_ex _company included—was ever allowed to see. Desperation seeped from every pore in the Winchester boy's face.

"Bobby," he said, his voice strained and trembling, "I think he's gone for good this time."

Bobby's gaze shifted to the still form on the bed. Sam's skin was pale-gray, making the man wonder how long Dean had been driving around with his brother's dead body.

With a sigh and a hand on the back of his neck, Bobby said, "Do I need to mention how morbid this is?"

Dean shook his head, his gaze returning to his brother's sullen face. No worry lines, no creases between his eyebrows or along his forehead. Just smooth skin. It made Sam look younger, almost like a kid again.

"Dean?"

"In a minute, Bobby," he said quietly. "Just . . . in a minute."

The sound of the man's wheelchair squeaking and wheeling away echoed down the corridor before Dean was drowned by a deafening quiet.

0 o 0 o 0

"He's suffering, Sam," Jess said, her eyes taking in the spectacular view of stars stretched out above them. They sat, the two of them, on a porch swing, covered with a quilt and gently swaying back and forth in a mid-summer breeze. "We always wanted a porch swing, didn't we?"

"I can't let him go," Sam sighed, shaking his head. "I just have this feeling . . . Something's not right."

"The world will go on," the young woman said. "The great Dean Winchester can handle the big, the bad, and the ugly all by himself."

"He shouldn't have to." Sam wasn't sure why he was arguing. He wanted this. He wanted _all _of it. Being with Jess was absolutely amazing. And being with his parents—able to meet and get to know his mother, to finally introduce Jess to his parents. What more could he want?

_How about that brother of yours? What was his name again? Don't tell me you've forgotten already . . . ._

"Dean," he murmured, looking out over the quiet night and watching blissfully as a beach appeared. Jess stood, taking his and hand tugging lightly. Sam followed without protest, pulling her tight against his side as they set a lazy pace down the sandy walkway.

"You know," Sam said, laying a kiss in Jess's soft, light-colored hair, "we never got to do this—take a walk on the beach." He frowned as a thought occurred to him. "There were a lot of things we never got to do."

Jess wrapped her arms around his torso. "We have all the time we need, now. Whatever we want to do, it's all here at our fingertips."

Sam stopped walking, his eyes glazing over. "You mean . . . if I let go."

The young woman took his face between her hands, forcing him to look in her eyes. "It will kill him, Sam. He'll be so consumed by your memory, he won't stop trying to bring you back." Her smile trembled. "Sam . . . save your brother. Save _yourself_." Wrapping her arms around his neck, she whispered in his ear. "Stay with me, Sammy."

0 o 0 o 0

"Stay with me, Sammy," Dean whispered, his head dropping to the bed as he hunched over in his chair.

This was how Bobby found him almost an hour later. If the older man had been a bit younger—and a bit more mobile—he would have moved Dean himself. Boy was going to have one heck of a crick in his neck when he woke up. Bobby settled for the next best thing—pulling a blanket over the young man.

He debated for a long moment about covering Sam's body, then decided against it, adding it to the mental list of things to talk about in the morning as he wheeled himself to his own bedroom for a couple hours of sleep.

0 o 0 o 0

_Dean woke. _

_And immediately panic set in. Sam's body was gone. _

"_Bobby!" he yelled, standing and heading toward the door. Someone stood in his way. For a second, he held his breath, waiting for an attack. But as his eyes focused on a familiar face, the air left his lungs in a whoosh. _

"_Cas."_

"_I've been looking for you," the angel said, his tone holding a surprising note of exasperation. "The voice on your cellphone keeps saying that you're unavailable." Castiel looked around. "You're at Bobby's?"_

"_Yeah. Cas—"_

"_I'll be there soon. Wake up."_

"_Cas, wait—"_

0 o 0 o 0

A hand shook his shoulder firmly, and Dean woke from the most sleep he'd gotten in days. He wasn't sure whether the body of his brother was a reassurance or a disappointment.

"Dean."

"Cas," the young man said quietly without turning around. "Why are you here?"

"I have been thinking," Castiel said carefully, and Dean's ears perked.

"Yeah?" the Winchester boy said, trying to refrain from sounding hopeful.

The angel paused for what seemed an eternity. "You're certain that bringing your brother back is the right choice?"

"Yes." No hesitation.

"Even if it means pain for him? Perhaps for the rest of his life?"

This made Dean pause. "What do you mean."

"You have felt the pain of having your soul ripped."

"Well, yeah. But it doesn't hurt _now_."

"Trust me," Castiel said solemnly, "this is going to hurt for a very long time."

Dean studied his brother's body, vaguely aware that Castiel's hand was still on his shoulder.

"How long will it take?"

"I don't know for sure." The angel shrugged in a very human way. "It depends."

"On . . . ?"

Castiel chose his words carefully before speaking again. "On how far he has integrated himself into the levels of heaven."

" 'Levels'?" Dean asked incredulously, one eyebrow raising as he cast the other a brief glance filled with skepticism. He frowned at the hand on his shoulder, as if just realizing it was there. He opened his mouth to mention something about personal space but found he just didn't have the heart or the strength to do so. Besides, it felt . . . _nice_ to be comforted. "You're telling me that heaven has _levels_? . . . Like a department store, or something? First floor, white robes, halos, and angel wings?" He didn't expect Castiel to get the reference, which he didn't, but it would have been nice to have someone to share his strange sense of humor with. A thought occurred to him suddenly. "You mean like . . . _level_ levels? Like the levels of _hell_?"

"Hell was created in the image of heaven, to mirror it. The levels of hell differ only in number . . . and the _final_ level."

"What happens in the final level?"

"Ascension," Castiel explained warily, putting a great deal of reverence into the word. It wasn't everyday that one was able—_allowed—_to talk about _the levels_. At Dean's questioning look, the angel continued. "Human spirits may choose to ascend to a higher plain of existence—an existence not unlike that of the angels."

"So . . . Sammy could be an angel?"

"Nearly." Castiel's vague reply spurred more questions, but Dean centered on the most important ones, trying his best not to let the hope in his chest dwell for too long.

"So what? Why would he want to be 'nearly' an angel?"

"Because then he could bring _himself_ back." Dean swore he saw a spark of light behind Castiel's stoic eyes. "Ascension is generally only used as a means of _de_scension."

"Meaning . . . ?" False hope be damned, Dean's chest was swelling with eagerness.

"Meaning that if your brother can make it through the levels of heaven, he can come back. He can be _alive_ again."

0 o 0 o 0

"Shouldn't there be . . . more?" Sam whispered languidly, his fingers stringing through Jess's hair as they lay side-by-side on a raft that swayed gently with each rolling wave of the ocean. They were alone, in the middle of a dark, softly churning sea of stars. Normally it would worry Sam to be so far from everything. But Jess had assured him that with a mere thought, they could be anywhere.

"Anywhere?" Sam had asked curiously, his mind wandering to certain places he had felt particularly attached to on earth—ones that contained memories of a not-forgotten brother. The places had appeared, one after the other—some of them flashing by so fast that Sam barely got a decent look.

Finally, an image froze, stuck in the young man's mind and refusing to budge.

Bobby's house.

Smiling, Sam had approached the front door, his hand barely on the doorknob before he was calling, "Bobby? Dean?"

0 o 0 o 0

"So how do we let him know? How do we get him from A to 'next time won't you sing with me'?" Dean was pacing now, four steps from the door to the opposite wall—but only three-and-a-half back to the door.

"I have to find him," Castiel said matter-of-factly, his eyes following the young man as if he was seeing a game of _Pong_ for the first time.

" 'Find him'?" Dean repeated, his pacing halting abruptly as he stepped into what would have been the angel's personal space—if angels understood personal space, of course. For all intents and purposes, Castiel didn't mind the space intrusion.

"Yes, I have to find him."

"What do you mean 'find him'? You're an angel. Work your mojo. Do your 'beam me up, Scotty' shit." Dean grabbed the lapels of the all-too-familiar trench coat, pulling the angel flush against himself—another all-to-familiarity; one that he didn't want to think about at the moment. "Get to my brother, and tell him what he needs to do to get back _here_."

Castiel's fingers itched to touch Dean's face, to string through Dean's hair, to glide over Dean's lips. "Dean . . . ."

The Winchester boy finally noticed his position and released Castiel's coat as if it had burned him. He swallowed hard and turned away, placing a hand on the back of his neck and squeezing hard. A million images raced through his brain, all of them involving a certain ascended being, but he pushed them away with one glance at his brother's body.

"Get him back, Cas," he said through clenched teeth. Spinning on his heels, he gave the angel a determined look. "_Go_."

And then Castiel was gone.

0 o 0 o 0

Sam had searched the whole house and found no sign of either Dean or Bobby. There was beer in the fridge, there were devil traps on the ceiling, and there were open books with pages screaming about resurrections strewn across the floor. But not a soul—living or dead—haunted the rooms or the hallways.

Entering the den for the third time, he'd found Jess waiting for him with a concerned smile and an explanation. "It's just a place, Sam—an image from your memories. Bobby and Dean are on earth, where they belong."

"But . . . ." the young man murmured, his eyebrows furrowing as he glanced around. "The books?"

"The mind sees what it needs to see," Jess replied simply. "It's okay to miss them, Sam. But . . . obsession will only lead to grief—for you and your brother."

And so Sam had promised to try letting go—_try _being the key word. He couldn't put the books out of his thoughts.

_What your mind 'needs to see'? _The voice in his head scoffed. _That's bullshit, and you know it. How would your head possibly come up with a detail like that?_

Sam frowned and pulled Jess tighter against his side, closing his eyes and letting the gentle roll of the waves take him away.

0 o 0 o 0

Castiel did not feel many emotions—outside those for the Winchester brothers . . . especially the older of the two. But he imagined that if he _could _feel something as he planned his return to heaven, it would simply be _fear_.

He could feel thousands of pairs of eyes watching him, waiting for him to cross the barrier into the afterlife. Thousands of ready and able beings wanting nothing more than to see him repent, beg forgiveness.

If that was what it took to re-enter the gates of heaven—for perhaps the last time—then so be it. Because the fear that Castiel should have been feeling wasn't there, replacing instead by a Winchester-fueled determination.

"I'm here, Sam," he whispered, breaching the boundary.

AN: Next chapter up soon! Later, Gators! Catch you all on the flip side.


	2. Part 1: Chapter 2

AN: So, some _big _changes in this fic compared to the canon (and some SERIOUS spoiler alerts for, basically, seasons 1ish through 4ish)—Ellen, Jo, and Ash are alive (I don't really have a set timeline for this...just sometime after Dean comes back from hell and sometime before Ellen and Jo die [_if_ they die in my fic] and...Ash just doesn't die at all).

I have also _finally_ finished this fic. There are only four chapters (which really surprised me—normally, I'm more of a _above-and-beyond-ten-chapters _kind of gal...either that or it's one-shots), but the way I end it, there absolutely has to be a sequel, so I'll just continue part two along with this fic so I don't waste space and time creating a whole new story.

Chapter Two:

"I don't know, Bobby," Dean said for probably the hundredth time, his tone never shifting a notch despite his obvious annoyance.

"But he's for sure coming back, right?" the older man asked skeptically. Neither one of them knew whether he was inquiring about Sam or Castiel, but either way the question warranted the same answer, just as the others had.

"I don't know, Bobby."

Bobby sighed. "Boy, I know you love your brother," he started, and he watched the muscles in Dean's back tighten, "but . . . we can't keep him like this forever. Bodies don't keep well, you know?"

"He just needs a little longer," the Winchester boy replied quietly. "Just . . . a little longer."

"How long has it been since that angel of yours left?"

Dean resisted the urge to blush profusely, wondering if Bobby really meant that Castiel _belonged _to him or whether the comment was supposed to be as nonchalant as it sounded. The young man didn't want to admit it—or _did _he?—but he definitely _owned _an angel.

Checking his watch, he bit the inside of his cheek and attempted to banish the growing feeling of dread drowning his stomach. "Three hours."

Bobby said no more, sensing the young man's distress, and wheeled himself out of the room. Damn it to hell if he didn't want to wait right along with the kid, but if he was going to have any luck convincing Dean that Sam was probably not coming back, he was going to need help.

_Damn it, John_, he thought, grabbing his cellphone and wheeling toward the door. _Could really use you right about now. _

0 o 0 o 0

"I need to find Sam Winchester," Castiel insisted to the court. He stood amidst his brothers and sisters—not literally, of course, because in heaven host bodies were unnecessary.

_Like a coat check . . . for bodies?_ Dean had asked him once.

Their stares were piercing and scrutinizing, disapproval rolling off them in waves.

"Sam Winchester is not your concern," a stoic voice reprimanded. "What makes you so eager to see him, Castiel?"

If the angel had been in his human form, he probably would have indulged in the very human act of biting the inside of his cheek and shifting uncomfortably. "I am running out of time. You cannot hold me here." He began to leave the small podium that he had been made to stand at but halted when several of his kind erupted into angry flames. Calmly, he resumed his place, repeating his statement again. "You. _Cannot_. Hold me here."

"Why is it you have returned, Castiel?" the fluid voice spoke.

"I have answered your questions," Castiel retorted hotly. "I demand to be—"

"You _demand_?" The voice sounded almost incredulous—well, as incredulous as an emotionless voice _could _sound. "You are in no position to be demanding _anything_."

He couldn't argue with that, he supposed. "I understand this situation is . . . unorthodox—"

"Blasphemous," the voice offered instead.

"Fine," Castiel conceded. "And I know the circumstances are less than desirable—"

"Catastrophic."

"Yes," he conceded again, "but I have a message—"

"You wish to give Sam Winchester a chance to leave heaven." Castiel's silence was more than enough of an affirmative. "He will not succeed."

"You don't know that," Castiel argued.

"No human soul has been able to descend from heaven since the _Creation_."

"That doesn't mean it can't happen." Castiel stood taller, brighter as a new wave of confidence flowed through him. "You know the prophecy. Sam is going to fulfill it."

Murmurs swept the angel court, a mixture of surprise, shock, and disbelief.

"How can you know this?"

If Castiel could have smirked right then and there, oh, he would have. "Because I know Sam Winchester."

0 o 0 o 0

Sam opened his eyes as if from a dream.

"No sense pretending to sleep here, Sam," a warm voice whispered beside his ear. "You don't need it."

"I was just thinking," Sam mumbled absently, feeling the urge to yawn and wondering why he couldn't.

"Aren't you tired?" Jess sighed, sitting up from beside him and studying him critically.

"Tired?" Sam, of course, wasn't tired—not even drowsy. He didn't think he _could _be in a place like this.

"Of holding on," the young woman replied. "It must be so much work."

_It's a trick._

A trick?

_A trap!_

A trap?

_Stop repeating everything I say! _The voice sounded exasperated—_exhausted_, as if just speaking was too hard. _That's not Jess._

"What do you mean?" Sam said aloud, not realizing the question fit both Jess's and the voice's statements.

"Think about your brother, Sam. Think about what this is doing to him."

_That's right! Think about how miserable I am without you! _

"You should be focusing on your life _here_, on—"

"_You_?" the young man asked, sitting up abruptly.

Jess sat back, startled for a moment. "Well, _yes_, of course you should focus on me, on _us_, but—"

Sam held up a hand, silencing the young woman. His eyebrows were drawn together, and his eyes shifted back and forth purposefully, as if he were searching his thoughts for something—some_one_.

"Dean?" he said timidly.

_About damn time you started listening to me! _Dean's voice rang out loud and strong, bringing a smile to the young man's face. He turned to Jess and started to speak, but the look on her face caused his smile to wane.

"You don't . . . hear Dean?" he asked, his stomach falling at the implications this presented.

"No," Jess said firmly, "and if I were you, I'd ignore that voice. It's not Dean."

_My _ass_ it's not me! _the Dean-voice shouted angrily. _Sammy, listen to me—_

"It's _temptation_, Sam. It's not your—"

—_going to keep you here forever—_

"—and when it creeps in, there's no getting rid of it. You have to—"

_You have to—_

"_Shut up_!" Sam yelled, covering his ears as if that could drown out the noise. "Just . . . _stop_ for a second!"

Silence filled the void that had been created by the young man's chaotic thoughts. No beach, no water or raft—just endless _nothing_.

"Sam . . . ."

"_I said_—" Sam stopped mid-sentence, realizing that the voice belonged to neither Jess nor the Dean in his head. He whirled around, feeling dizzy and relieved all at once. "Cas!"

0 o 0 o 0

The next morning brought no hope for Dean. Sam was worse than the day before—the skin around his eyes, mouth, and hairline was starting to yellow and flake. Bobby had ignored it before, but the stench of death was filling the room. Soon it would be in the hall, then the kitchen. By the end of the week, Bobby would probably find himself camped out in the junkyard.

Something had to be done.

As he pushed a speed dial button and put the cellphone to his ear, he hated himself. It wasn't the first time he'd called for help, but it was the first time he'd done it with this much regret.

"Ash," he said as the line on the other end was picked up, "put Ellen on the phone, would ya?"

0 o 0 o 0

Contrary to what Bobby thought, Dean knew exactly what was going on around him. Not with Sam, of course—Lord knew (_literally_) what was going on with him. But Dean _did_ know that something was going to happen. Bobby had been asking him more and more if keeping Sam's body was the right thing to do. He'd done it before, and it had turned out . . . fine. But there were no deals to be made this time. No self-loving demon was going to step into something that involved angels. And Dean had had enough run-ins with angels to know they didn't strike deals.

Sam was gone for good unless Castiel could do something about it. The elder of the Winchester boys had the utmost confidence in him, despite his avid cajoling of the angelic race. The truth was that Dean was _counting _on him.

And as he squeezed his brother's cold, unresponsive hand, he closed his eyes, whispering, "Cas . . . _hurry_."

0 o 0 o 0

"Cas!" Sam could have hugged the angel. So he did.

Castiel stood for a moment, wondering if now was the appropriate time to show affection. Realizing that the young man probably needed it, he hesitantly wrapped his arms around him. The only other intimate contact they'd had before this was a handshake—which didn't compare in the least to the contact he'd had with the other Winchester boy . . . .

_Not the time_, he told himself, breaking the hug and opening his mouth to speak.

"What is he doing here?" Jess asked, her tone dropping with accusation and an edge that Sam had never heard before. Castiel's gaze leveled on her.

"You should not be here," he said in a low and dangerous voice.

"Sam, make him leave," Jess said loudly, shifting uncomfortably as the angel's eyes narrowed at her.

"Leave?" Sam asked. He looked back and forth between the two. "Cas, what's going on?"

"This is not your girlfriend," Castiel explained slowly, circling the young woman.

"What do you—"

"He's lying," Jess said angrily. "He shouldn't _be _here. Send him away."

"So Dean is right?" Sam said quietly, and the angel stopped his circling to stare at him.

"Dean?" he inquired curiously, hopefully. Had Dean found a way to contact his brother? Was there a way? Castiel stepped up to him determinedly, invading what Dean called the "personal space." A moment went by, where not a sound was made, Castiel staring intently into the young man's eyes. Finally, the angel's mouth twisted into a frown.

"That is not your brother," he said with an utter finality.

Sam would have released a pent-up breath, if there had been any reason to breathe. He settled on huffing his frustration and saying, "So,what, heaven is just a bunch of _lies_?" He could feel disappointment forming a black hole in his faith. Was this _really _what it came down to? First the angels, now _heaven_? What next—was God _really_ just some stupid pimply-faced kid with a magnifying glass and an ant farm?

Castiel looked at the young man coolly. "This isn't heaven, Sam."

0 o 0 o 0

"You're not putting him in some God-damn _hole_, Bobby!" Dean's angry voice echoed throughout the house and made its way to the ears of the occupants stepping up to the front porch.

"Well," Ellen sighed, giving Jo and Ash a pointed look, "sounds like it's going all right . . . ."

"Sam's really dead, then," Jo said quietly, and her mother put an arm around her shoulders.

"Just remember," the woman warned, "no taking sides. This is something Dean and Bobby have to hash out."

"Right," Jo and Ash replied simultaneously, each having already chosen who they would defend.

0 o 0 o 0

The doorbell rang, and Bobby was saved from having to plead with the young man. Dean stood between him and the body, as if Bobby might, suddenly, try to make off with it.

"I don't care who you brought here to take your side, Bobby," Dean growled coldly. "I am _not_ letting you touch him."

Bobby said nothing, spinning his wheelchair around and making his way toward the front door. Dean heard the creak of the hinges, the soft murmurs of greeting, and then the heavy fall of footsteps as the guests made their way back to the room.

Dean wasn't surprised to find Ellen and Jo amongst the few visitors, and though Ash threw him off for a fraction of a second—he couldn't recall having seen the man outside the bar before—he supposed that in a small way he'd almost expected him to be there.

"Dean," Ellen greeted carefully, watching him with a scrutinizing eye.

"Ellen," the young man sighed tiredly, his shoulders sagging and his chin trembling as his eyes welled with tears. He hadn't seen this reaction coming at all, but in the instant it took the first tear to fall down his cheek, the woman was across the room, holding him like only a mother knows how.

0 o 0 o 0

"This isn't heaven, Sam."

The words bounced around his skull for a moment, refusing to settle in until he shook his head and allowed information to meld with his stream of consciousness—such as it was.

"What?" he demanded, unsure of which emotion to settle on as confusion, rage, terror, and sadness warred within him.

"I assumed that is where you would be," Castiel replied almost absently. "I knew your soul had been guided by an angel." His accusatory stare swiveled back onto the young woman. "I just didn't know by who."

Sam watched Jess's face contort with anger. "What do you mean?"

"This is not Jessica." The angel sounded adamant about that, placing himself strategically between the two. "It's Zachariah."

A silence followed that seemed to deafen the atmosphere surrounding them.

"Zachariah?" Sam mumbled incredulously, his thoughts whirling as his girlfriend abruptly changed form in front of them.

"So you found me," the angel sneered, spreading his hands as if daring Castiel to do something about it. "You can't break him out of here. He hasn't _chosen_."

" 'Chosen'?" Sam repeated uncertainly. "What do I have to choose?"

"Whether you stay here," Castiel explained, his eyes narrowing at his brother, "or whether you move on to _the after_."

" 'The after'?" The young man felt like a parrot—if someone started offering him crackers, he thought he might go ballistic.

Castiel finally turned to face him. "Sam, you're supposed to be in heaven. This place . . . ." He glanced around almost warily. "You are _not_ supposed to be here."

"Cas," Sam said carefully, "where the hell _am_ I?"

Before Castiel could answer, Zachariah chuckled and put his hands casually into the pockets of his dark suit pants. "You're in _Purgatory_, Sammy."

0 o 0 o 0

"Levels?" Ellen said uncertainly. She'd seen Sam. She'd cried her tears. And now she wanted answers.

Sam looked _dead_. Not on the brink of death, not like someone fighting to stay alive. _Dead_. Five days dead, to be exact. And that wasn't a pretty sight.

"Yeah," Dean confirmed, shifting uncomfortably on the couch. It was the first time he'd been away from Sam's body for more than two minutes, and the anxious feeling in his stomach was growing with each passing moment. "Cas said . . . ." He paused, rubbing at his tired eyes and swallowing hard. When he looked up, Ellen was holding a bottle of water out to him. And though it wasn't exactly what the young man wanted, he smiled feebly and took the offered drink with as much gratitude as he could muster.

"But Sam's . . . in heaven," Jo stated quietly, frowning slightly. She thought she'd chosen a side—_Dean's _side—but now that she'd learned of Sam's whereabouts, she wasn't quite sure.

Dean looked at her imploringly, begging her with his eyes not to change her mind now. "He shouldn't _be _there. He belongs _here_, where he can do some good."

"Dean . . . What if he's happy?" Ellen said carefully, not wanting to push the young man.

"_How _can he be happy?" Dean fumed, roughly setting the bottle down and standing. "_How_ can he? How _could_ he? How . . . Why . . . _What the fuck was he thinking_?" The young man's tone became desperate, his voice husky as a lump rose in his throat. He'd promised himself he wouldn't do this in front of them after his meltdown before.

_// Ellen stroked Dean's hair, holding him as tightly as her arms would allow. "Sh," she soothed. "It'll be all right." She'd always felt bad for these boys. First no mother, now no father. And Sam? That was just the last thin thread in what used to be a tapestry of normalcy, unraveling with every hunt, with every loss. Now that only Dean was left, what hope was there of the young man pulling himself back together?_

_Dean shook his head against her shoulder, feeling his tears glide off the slick fabric of her jacket. "I can't breathe, El," he whispered, and she loosened her grip, misunderstanding him, but he only held her tighter. "I can't . . . I can't feel him. He isn't here, and my chest just locks up, and . . . I can't _breathe_, El. It . . . _hurts_." //_

Ellen had considered this for a long while as Dean was explaining things. She'd come to the conclusion that the young man's words were not _entirely_ about Sam. There was something else, some_one_ else, that was making Dean act this way.

"So, Castiel . . . ." she started, gauging his reaction. "He's helping Sam now?"

"We think so," Bobby answered when Dean said nothing.

"He better be," the Winchester boy muttered, his fingers itching to wrap around a nice bottle of amber liquid. Bobby had outright refused to buy any alcohol since Dean's arrival—not even beer. He'd hidden his own stash the second the young man had carried his dead younger brother through the door. No sense having a repeat of the last few years.

"So these levels," Ash said quietly, as if that had been the only thing his intellectual mind could hold onto—and, of course, it was. "Did that angel say anything about them?"

"Just that . . . each one is harder to get through than the last," Dean explained absently, his pacing becoming restless.

With a knowing glance from her mother, Jo stood and quietly approached the anxious man. "Dean . . . Can you take me for a walk?"

Dean stopped, staring at her apprehensively, then accusingly, and finally resignedly, nodding and starting toward the front door. When it closed, Ash turned to Bobby, holding up his make-shift laptop. "You got someplace I can jack in?" Bobby nodded and turned his wheelchair around, leading the other man to the living room.

Alone, Ellen clasped her hands together, closing her eyes and heaving a shuddering breath. With all the courage she could muster, she stood and made her way to Sam's room.

"Oh, honey," she sighed when she'd sat in a chair beside the bed and taken hold of the young man's cold, dead hand, "I am so sorry." Her chin trembled, and she covered her mouth with her free hand, letting the tears fall. "You boys don't deserve this. _Any _of it." She swallowed hard and did her best to compose herself, taking a steadying breath. "But I gotta know, Sam . . . I _have _to know if you're happy or not. Because if we go through with whatever your brother has planned, and you . . . if you don't want to come _back_ . . . ." She closed her eyes, whispering her next words before quickly giving the fingers a squeeze and hastily retreating from the room.

"God help me if I have to _stop_ him."

0 o 0 o 0

"Bobby's junkyard is . . . great," Jo said, chuckling half-heartedly.

Dean gave her a pointed look. "I know why I'm out here."

"Of course you do," the young woman said nonchalantly, taking his arm and pulling him past a row of stacked cars. "You're taking me for a walk. That house smells like . . . ." She barely caught herself, but the damage had already been done.

Dean halted in his tracks, pulling from her grasp and giving her a hard look. "I know what it smells like. I'm not _stupid_, Jo. I know Sam's dead. I just . . . ." He trailed off, and his eyes went glassy. "He's my brother."

"Dean," Jo started uncertainly, biting her lower lip. "How can you know for sure that he isn't where he's supposed to—"

"Why does everyone keep _saying_ that?" the young man ranted. "He doesn't _belong_ there, Jo! You don't know him! He wouldn't just . . . He couldn't—"

"Sam's in _heaven_," Jo said bluntly, her patience for the Winchester boy wearing thin. "How can he _not _be happy?"

"He just _isn't._" Dean scowled at her and took a step back toward the house. "_End_ of discussion."

AN: Next chapter up as soon as I can find time to type it! Later, Gators! Catch you all on the flip side. :)


	3. Part 1: Chapter 3

AN: Sorry for the extreme lateness of this chapter, everyone! I recently lost my flash drive at the middle school I student teach at. Luckily, a student found it for me (and was going to keep it for himself until I found out he had it…). Oh, chillins…. Anyway, enjoy this next one! It was extremely hard to write, just warning you. A tissue-issue warning may need to be inserted here.

Chapter 4 will be up this weekend. Promise!

Chapter Three:

"_Purgatory_?" Sam demanded incredulously. "There _is _such a place?"

"Apparently." Zachariah shrugged unhelpfully.

"Yes," Castiel replied, narrowing his eyes at the other angel. "And we have to leave before—"

"It's too late for that," Zachariah interrupted with a satisfied grin. "He's accepted his place here."

Frowning, Castiel turned to Sam, who looked taken aback. "Have you?" he asked calmly, keeping the apprehension from his face. If Sam had really chosen this place—whether by actual choice or by some trick of Zachariah's—then there was no hope of his return . . . ever.

"I . . . ." Sam started uncertainly, glancing between the two angels. "I honestly don't know."

Castiel turned toward him fully and said, "Well, there's only one way to find out." Placing a hand on the young man's shoulder, he pursed his lips and prayed with all the faith he could manage to summon in a place like this.

"You know what will happen—" Zachariah started, his face stoic but his tone revealing his anxiety.

"I am aware," the other angel replied with a harsh finality. He looked the young man in the eye. "Sam," he said slowly, "if I do this and you've chosen—"

"Get me out of here, Cas," Sam whispered imploringly.

Castiel needed no further prompting.

0 o 0 o 0

Dean slammed the door as he made his way back into the house, determinedly stomping toward Sam's room. Ellen stepped into the hall just as he reached the bedroom and shoved his way past her, closing and locking the door.

"Dean?" Ellen's confused, worried voice sounded from the other side. "Honey, unlock the door."

The young man stumbled across the room, his anger and grief clouding his vision. Leaning over his brother, he whipped away the blanket that had been concealing the body for near a week. The smell was putrid, the skin gray and flaky, the abdomen bloated. What was he going to do. _What was he going to do?_

"What, Sam?" he choked, grabbing hold of the corpse's shoulders and beginning to shake them violently. "Tell me what I have to do." Silence followed his words. "Damn it, Sam!" he screamed, ignoring the incessant knocking and call of his name from the door. "They want to put you in a fucking box! They want to bury you! I can't let them . . . I _won't_ . . . ."

The tears ran freely now. A vague voice in the back of his head commented on the fact that he'd done enough crying to fill _both _of their angst quotas for a while.

"Shut up," he mumbled, wiping his eyes. "Who's crying, huh?"

_Well_, the voice said rather plainly, _I'm dead, so it _must _be you_.

Dean's breath caught in his throat. "S-Sammy?" he croaked.

"Dean."

The young man whipped around, losing his grip and collapsing on the floor. "Cas," he breathed, his head swimming.

"Are you all right?" the angel asked, his eyebrows drawing together as he leaned down by the young man.

"What's going on?" Dean demanded. "What's happening with Sam?"

Castiel offered a hand, but Dean only continued to stare at him expectantly. "I was able to contact him," he explained. "Sam has started his journey through the levels."

Dean could have cried. But the skin around his eyes was already swollen, and he could barely manage a welling of tears. Abruptly, he surged forward, entangling himself with the angel and knocking him backwards.

"Fuck, Cas," he whimpered, burying his face in the warm chest. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"I'm sorry, Dean," the angel whispered, stringing his fingers through the young man's hair and the fabric of his shirt. "I'm sorry I wasn't here."

The door burst open suddenly, Ash standing brazenly in the door frame. He lowered a large, booted foot and stepped inside the room. "Dean?"

Dean held tighter to Castiel, unable to let go of him yet.

0 o 0 o 0

Level One: Need

Sam had high hopes—and a vague feeling of disappointment—when Cas brought him to heaven. First because nothing out of the ordinary had happened—and when asked, Castiel had said that nothing had occurred so it was hardly worth mentioning. Second because he hadn't felt much of anything—no sudden overwhelming sense of happiness. Perhaps getting through heaven wouldn't be as hard as he thought it would be.

However, Sam had almost wanted it to be difficult. He had wanted to experience the feeling of being in infinite existence—the _real_ feeling, not something created to trick him into staying in _Purgatory_. Though even with the faux feeling of happiness, he'd had his doubts, which only served to strengthen his resolve.

Cas had pointed him in the right direction and then had left abruptly. It seemed he wasn't welcome in this place. And so Sam had set out, wandering what seemed to be the backwoods of some small, Midwestern town. It looked chillingly familiar—then again, it was hard to distinguish one part of the Midwest from the other—and he wondered why something as dreary and _wet_ would be his ideal place.

The angel had explained it in relatively brief terms. Heaven was made up of a person's happiest moments—some were memories, others were things that had yet to happen or things that would _never _happen but would have been nice nonetheless. Sometimes two people were put together, and other times doorways between two peoples' worlds were opened. It was a long and complicated process that Cas had had no where near enough time to explain. The Winchester boy made a mental note _not _to ask about when he got back . . . _if _he got back.

"Sam?"

Sam turned, startled at the familiar voice. It was Dean! . . . A smaller, _younger_ Dean. But it was definitely his brother. "Dean?" he called as the young teen hurried toward him.

"Shit, Sam," Dean breathed heavily, worry evident on his face as he reached toward him. "Your arm! It's bleeding!"

Sam looked down at his left arm, finding his shirt sleeve soaked in a red liquid. It didn't hurt, but the memory of the pain was enough to bring tears to his eyes.

"I'm so sorry!" Dean wailed. He held a gun in his hand. Suddenly, Sam recalled where he was and what had happened. "It's not your fault, Dean," he said softly, putting a hand over the wound and wincing instinctually. "I'm all right."

"Dad's gonna kill me!"

"I won't tell, honest," Sam promised, just as he had so long ago. "It doesn't hurt. And you can bandage real well. I think it's just a graze. It's no big deal!"

It had been, of course. When their dad arrived back at the motel after a two-day hunt and found the bandage wrappers and several bullets missing from his spare hand-gun, he'd gone ballistic on the both of them. Sam had tried to take the blame, telling their father he had snuck out of the room with the gun to do some target practice in the woods. The bullet had ricocheted and grazed his arm. John wasn't that stupid. No bullet was going to ricochet off a tree and hit _Sam_, of all people—the boy could barely life a gun, let alone point and shoot one. But he still chewed them both out—Sam for being stupid and Dean for being inattentive.

"Okay, Sam" Dean said worriedly, but he mustered up a smile, ripping his shirt and tying it around Sam's arm. The black contrasted darkly against the white of Sam's T-shirt. The younger of the Winchesters remembered walking back to the motel and downing a whole carton of Rocky Road while Dean had cleaned and bandaged the wound. They'd laughed and watched old monster movies and fallen asleep in front of the T.V.

It was a good memory. But Sam had somewhere to be.

0 o 0 o 0

"The first level," Castiel explained to an eager group—it was Jo, Ellen, and Ash's first visit with the angel (_any _angel!) and they couldn't stop gaping—"is what's known as 'Need.'"

" 'Need'?" Dean shifted uncomfortably. What could Sam _possibly_ need in heaven?

"He'll experience memories," the angel said, visibly squirming under the intense attention he was receiving. "Most likely memories of his childhood. "He glanced at Dean. "Of his family."

"What's the point of that?" Ash asked with a scoff.

"If you could relive your happiest moments, wouldn't you?" Castiel asked. "Humans discover their _needs_ not only through instinct but by using their memories to discover what in the _past_ has made them happy."

"So, if life at Stanford was what made him happy . . . what he _needed_ . . . ." Dean said a little hesitantly.

"Then that is what he will see." The angel gave the elder of the Winchester sons a sympathetic look.

A silence hung in the air for a moment before Bobby cleared his throat. "How about these _other _levels? What are they like?"

"The second," Castiel said matter-of-factly, "is 'Want.'"

0 o 0 o 0

Sam stepped through the door of a large building, shuffling out of the way as several young men and women scurried past him with stacks of books and bloated backpacks.

"Sam!" an unfamiliar voice called. He turned and frantically searched the crowd before noticing a smiling Latina woman about his age headed toward him. She placed a hand on his arm over the dark piece of cloth that was still tied over his white T-shirt. "Sweetie, we're going to be late."

"Late?" he asked softly, glancing around him.

"For class!" she laughed, leading him toward a flight of stairs. "You don't get to graduate from law school if you don't pass your classes!"

"Law school?" Sam was annoyed to realize he was having another _parrot_ moment.

"Gabby!" someone called from the crowd, and the young woman turned and waved.

"So we're still doing lunch, right?" She turned back to Sam with an expectant look on her face.

The young man took a moment to answer but finally pulled himself together. "Yeah, of course."

Gabby smiled brightly, leaning forward and kissing him. "Great! See you after your test. Good luck!" And then she was just another body pushing her way through the mass of people.

Somewhere across the massive campus, a clock tower tolled. This wasn't a memory—it was a life he could have had if he'd stopped hunting after they had found Dad. Or after Dean had killed the yellow-eyed demon. Or after one-hundred separate occasions when he could have said, "Enough is enough," and walked out on everything. This was what he wanted. He could live here and be who he _should_ have been.

And as the mob of people became thinner, he considered going to a class he had apparently been taking all semester and trying his luck with a test that he had apparently studied for.

One look at the fabric tied around his arm, however, and he knew this place was not for him.

Sighing, he started toward the front door and twisted the handle, ready to move on.

0 o 0 o 0

Castiel felt Sam move on to the next level and suppressed a sigh of relief. The young man wasn't out of the woods yet. The angel was aware that time in heaven was different than time on earth. Sam could very well make it through all five levels by the time their conversation was over.

"The third is 'Satisfaction.'"

0 o 0 o 0

Compared to the first two levels, this one was . . . relatively simple.

Retirement.

Not in the sense of old age. No, Sam and Dean were very much young—not a whole lot older than they were now.

But they each had their own apartments—they'd considered cutting costs and getting one together, but the _couple_ references during their hunting days had put an end to that line of thinking. They got together on weekends, drinking beer at Ellen's and reminiscing about the _good ol' days_, which hadn't been all that great, truthfully. But they were behind the Winchester boys, and retirement had never tasted so sweet.

They helped in Bobby's junk yard and owned their own car repair shop, which, for some reason, didn't bother Sam at all. College education be damned, he was happy as a grease monkey.

Again, the possible life wasn't anything spectacular, but it was simple. It didn't involve chasing or killing or _dying_. Sam was all right with that—_more_ than all right. In fact, he was downright peachy keen.

But it wasn't something he absolutely wanted, either. So Sam moved on without much difficulty.

0 o 0 o 0

"What's the fourth?" Jo asked when Castiel didn't continue.

The angel frowned. The fourth level worried him above all the others. He knew Sam was still moving on, still making his way through heaven's levels with relative ease. That had been expected. But what lay ahead worried Castiel more than he cared to admit.

" 'Longing,'" he said absently. "Something he wants more than anything."

0 o 0 o 0

He opened a door . . . and stepped into a house. It was unfamiliar.

"Great," he uttered, letting the door close behind him. "More stuff I want but can't have."

"Honey, is that you?" a voice called from inside the house. It _was_ familiar, and Sam almost called out to who he thought was Gabby. He was drowned out by the sound of scurrying feet. From around the corner came two disheveled boys, twins around the age of four.

"Daddy!" they screeched, launching toward him. Without a second thought (some sort of parental instinct kicking in), he leaned down, arms open wide to catch both boys in a hug. Eyes wide, he held his breath, reveling in the small arms wrapped around his neck. The twins pulled away, grabbing his hands and pulling him down the hallway.

"Wait till you see what we made you, Daddy!" the one on his left said excitedly.

"Uncle Dean helped us! And he made one, too," the one on the right said without skipping a beat. Before Sam could think much about the statement, he was pulled into a bright yellow kitchen. Standing by the dining room table was Dean, a little older but still handsome and with less worry lines. He held a child, a girl no older than two.

Dean's gaze landed on him, and the elder of the Winchester brothers gave a carefree smile. "There he is," he said, turning the child in his arms to face Sam. "There's daddy!" The little girl cooed happily and reached toward him, curling and uncurling her fingers in a clear "I want" fashion.

"Honey, go change! Your parents will be here any minute!"

Sam's breath caught in his throat as he turned, receiving a kiss from a woman wearing a blue, sunflower-patterned sundress, an apron, and a wedding ring.

"Jess." He breathed in her scent and closed his eyes for a moment.

"I'm serious!" Jess said, nudging him back toward the kitchen door. "I don't want my kitchen smelling like a courtroom!"

Arms wrapped around each of his knees, and he looked down to find the twins giggling and holding something up to him.

"See?" one said, waving a piece of paper around.

"Look!" the other said, mirroring the action.

Sam took one in each hand, holding them side-by-side. He laughed happily at the pictures of hand-print turkeys.

"McKayla's is a footprint," one twin squealed with laughter.

"And Uncle Dean gave his turkey _six _fingers," the other giggled.

"Hey," Dean said with mock seriousness, "some people are born with six fingers, you know."

The twins shouted with amusement and ran off toward the dining room table, which was covered with what Sam assumed was Thanksgiving dinner.

Dean came up beside him, shifting McKayla on his hip. "Hey," he said quietly. "Sammy, you okay?"

Sam cleared his throat, swallowing a lump and blinking back tears. He didn't even have the heart to mutter his customary, _Sam, not Sammy_.

"Fine," he said softly, setting the pictures aside. "I'm just gonna go change."

Dean stared at him a moment longer, his eyebrows drawn together. "Okay, he said carefully. "Be quick, though. You know Dad's a grizzly when he's hungry."

"Yeah," Sam nodded, backing away toward the kitchen door. "I know."

Just as he was about to leave, Dean stopped him. "Wait." Sam's shoulders hunched, and he winced. Dean gave him a hard look, then turned to the little girl in his arms. "Show Daddy what you learned today."

McKayla smiled at Sam, bringing her hand up to her mouth and blowing him a kiss. Sam smiled weakly.

Dean leaned forward and whispered dramatically, "You're supposed to catch it."

The younger Winchester brother raised a shaky hand, closing his fingers into his palm. McKayla laughed and clapped her hands happily.

"Be right back," Sam lied, backing fully out of the kitchen and having to use the corridor wall as support.

A family. A beautiful family. With Jess. With _kids_. With _Dean_ and . . . and . . . .

He banged a hand against the wall angrily, straightening and determinedly heading for the front door. His hand rested on the knob but refused to twist it as sounds of laughter filtered from the kitchen. Why couldn't he have this? Why couldn't he be happy for the rest of _forever_? Why could he just for once think about _himself_?

And if this was the fourth level—if it was _this _hard to leave—what made him think he'd be able to refuse what came next? Sam swallowed, looking down at the fabric still encircling his upper arm. Even _this _wasn't enough to make the decision for him. Gritting his teeth, his grip on the door knob tightened, preparing himself to open it and leave this perfect life behind.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

AN: Shorter than the others, I think. Sorry! Only one more chapter to go. For reals! Then it's on to part two, which will be featured in this same fic, so if you _story alert_ this, you should be set.

I don't remember what law school Sam wanted to go to…I realize it's in the first episode, which I haven't watched in _forever_, but my roomie's papa borrowed my first season. Can anyone help me out? Anyway…that's why the school is so vague.

Later, Gators! Catch you on the flip side.


	4. Part 1: Chapter 4

AN: The final chapter of part one. I _will _be continuing this story, and it will be in _this _particular fic (partly because it's so short, and partly because I'm too lazy to start a new document). It makes less work for you, I suppose—you don't have to go hunt down the second part...if you're even interested in reading the second part...Let's hope so. Enjoy this last chapter!

Chapter Four

Castiel frowned as he stared at the only other occupant in the den, the paraplegic staring back at him with narrowed eyes.

"What're you thinkin', Cas?" Bobby said slowly. He could see the wheels turning behind the angel's eyes. Something was happening in that head of his—God only knew what.

"I told you that I could not help you walk again," Castiel stated bluntly.

The corners of Bobby's mouth turned downward. "Yeah," he said bitterly. "So?"

"That . . . is not entirely true, now," Castiel admitted, his eyebrows drawing together.

The hunter wheeled forward a couple of feet, his eyes wide and his mouth open just a fraction. "What are you talkin' about?"

Castiel closed the remaining space between them, standing tall in front of the wheelchair-laden man, leaning forward, and placing a hand on Bobby's shoulder. Almost immediately, a soft blue light began to emit from his palm. It glowed brightly for a moment, then died almost instantly. Castiel pulled his hand away and took a step back.

Dean entered the room then, halting in the doorway of the den and glancing back and forth between the two men. His chest tightened as, for a fleeting moment, thoughts of everything that could go wrong with Sam flitted across his mind. "What's wrong?" he asked, his voice husky.

Bobby sat in a stupor for near a minute before he realized something strange about his legs. The fact that he _realized_ them in the first place, of course, but also that he could—

"Bobby?" Dean asked with concern. "You okay?"

The older man was . . . crying. And as his left foot shifted in its cradle, the young man understood why. Dean was at his side instantly, Castiel on the other side, and the two helped the man to his feet.

"Oh, my God," Bobby whispered, standing on shaky legs—_standing_. "Oh, my . . . ." He gasped as he took a step forward, giving a breathless, incredulous bark of laughter with another step until he made it to the couch. Dean and Castiel carefully set him down.

Bobby stared at his legs as if they were something that had just sprouted from his hips unexpectedly. Dean sat down beside him, one hand on his shoulder. "Bobby?"

"Just," the older man said, his voice no more than a whisper, "give me a minute." He closed his eyes, wiggling the toes inside his boots, and breathed out in relief.

With an abrupt movement, Castiel stepped away from the two and made a disapproving noise in the back of his throat as he began to pace the den. Bobby's miracle temporarily pushed aside, the two men watched the angel pensively.

"What is it?" Dean asked warily, sitting up a little straighter from his slouched position on the couch.

Castiel opened his mouth to speak but stopped as he felt a shift in Sam's presence between the levels.

"Cas?" Dean stood, halting the angel's pacing.

Castiel looked apprehensive, which wasn't at all common for the normally stoic transcendent being. "Sam is on the edge of the final level."

"Already?" Dean asked with surprise. He resisted the urge to smile, not wanting to get his hopes up. First Bobby, now Sam. Sam was almost there, almost _home_.

"For us, here on earth, it has been a relatively short amount of time," Castiel explained, still uncertain about Sam's hovering existence. "For your brother, hours—possibly _days—_have passed. Navigating through heaven, through such an _infinite_ place . . . ."

Dean nodded in understanding. "So, what's the fifth level?"

The angel hesitated, which made Dean frown. "The fifth level," Castiel stated carefully, "is 'Bliss.'"

0 o 0 o 0

He knew he shouldn't open the door. He knew this just as he'd realized what the final level would be and why it would be the hardest. He knew this, and yet his fingers were still rigid, frozen to the doorknob.

The sounds around him faded away—no more children laughing and running around, no more pots and pans clanging against the side of the sink, no more clink of silverware on porcelain plates. Only the sound of the doorbell reverberating through the barren house rang in his ears.

For a fraction of a second, he wondered if he could go back, return to his new family, to that perfect life. But just as quickly, the thought disappeared. He wanted a family—a _real _family, not a fabricated one.

And so he twisted the knob.

0 o 0 o 0

"What sort of _bliss _are we talking about, here?" Dean demanded, narrowing his eyes at the angel. Castiel held his ground, staring the young man right in the eye.

"It's not a memory," he said quietly. "It's not a 'might-have-been' or something that will never happen."

Dean's face fell. "It's something real. Something he can't have here."

Castiel nodded. "More than likely," he said, wanting more than anything to comfort the young man, "he will come face to face with your parents."

0 o 0 o 0

The door swung open, and Sam found himself . . . _home_.

Before him, a staircase rose to the second floor, and to his left was the den. On his right . . . on his right . . . .

His train of thought was lost as he stared wide-eyed at the two figures standing in the dining room. "Mom?" he whispered, his gaze shifting to the other. "Dad?"

"Sammy," Mary Winchester said, holding her arms open. Somehow he knew it wasn't a trick. These were his parents—his _real _parents—together, finally. He had never seen them together, outside of singed photographs and a six-month-old subconscious. It was . . . unreal.

He stepped forward into her waiting embrace and wrapped his arms around her small frame, breathing in her warm scent. Amber and vanilla. It set his eyes watering. How many memories could he have had—_should _he have had—of that scent? Of this woman? Of his _mother_?

"Sam," John Winchester said, a genuine smile on his face—something that Sam had not seen as often as he'd have liked to. He wrapped Sam in a bear hug, and the young man couldn't keep the tears from falling.

Mary patted both men on the shoulder. "You boys have a seat." She started toward the kitchen. "I made pie."

John chuckled as he released Sam. "She always makes pie," he said quietly, steering his son to the table and sitting opposite him. Sam complied, a dumbfounded expression on his face that made John laugh. "You're surprised to see us."

Sam swallowed, looking down at the table. What was he supposed to say to his dead father—a father he had yelled at the last time he saw him alive? Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and released it slowly. Could a person hyperventilate in heaven?

"Sammy . . . ." The young man opened his eyes to find John watching him carefully. "You know we're real, don't you?"

Sam nodded obediently. "Yeah."

"Then what—"

The swinging kitchen door opened, and Mary came through, balancing plates, forks, and a pie.

"It's cherry!" she sing-songed, setting everything on the table.

Sam cleared his throat and stood. "Here, Mom," he said with a smile that he wished wasn't forced, "let me help you with that."

0 o 0 o 0

"You're saying he won't come back," Dean stated grimly, his thoughts wandering to a future without his brother.

"I'm saying the temptation is . . . great," Castiel replied. "Your brother still has a choice."

"He'll stay." The Winchester boy's tone was final, defeated.

"He may still—"

"He won't," Dean interrupted, turning on his heel and starting toward Sam's room. "He'll stay."

Bobby stood and maneuvered himself in front of the young man. "You don't know that."

"I do."

"_How_?" Bobby demanded desperately, clutching the door frame for support. It wasn't fair. First Sam was dead and no one believed he would be coming back except Dean. Now there was a chance—a small one, but one nonetheless—that he could come back, and Dean was giving up. "How could you possibly know that?"

"Because _I would_," Dean said matter-of-factly. "I would leave this place and you people—" He swiveled around, indicating both the occupants in room and the ones missing. "—behind in a _second_ if it meant I could see my parents again."

"And no one blames you for that," Bobby said. "We all have people we feel that way about. But Sam knows you're here _waiting_ for him. Now you need to ask yourself if you _really _think that boy would abandon you, if your parents would keep him there if you still need him."

There was a lingering silence before the young man started again toward Sam's room.

"Dean," Bobby said quietly, "where are you—"

"To bury my brother," Dean snapped, disappearing around the hallway's corner.

0 o 0 o 0

The great thing about heaven was that you weren't full until you wanted to be. So, three pies later—the second of which had been apple cheddar and the third of which had been strawberry rhubarb—Sam, John, and Mary sat around the dining room table, laughing, reminiscing, and feeling comfortably full.

It was when a moment of silence fell over them that Sam began to feel apprehensive. The dark fabric around his arm felt tight and weighed heavily on his conscious. "So," he said softly, "this is what you do? Just sit around and eat pie?"

John patted his stomach. "Well, it doesn't add to the waistline." He and Mary chuckled. "But we go for walks, watch movies and eat popcorn."

"Occasionally your father will go fish or work on the car," Mary said, "and I'll bake or knit."

"But we sit out front on the porch swing every night," John finished, taking his wife's hand a kissing it.

Sam gave a sad smile. "And you're happy?"

"Always," Mary said. "And with you here, it's just—"

"You're happy?" Sam repeated, looking between the two. "Without me and Dean, though? You can still be happy?" He hadn't meant the question to sound the way it did—accusatory.

"Sammy," John said with a painful sigh, but Sam shook his head and held up a hand.

"I mean . . . You _are _happy. Even without Dean and I—you can still _be _happy when we're not here."

Mary's eyebrows furrowed, and she leaned forward out of her husband's hold. "Sam, what are you trying to—"

"I can't stay," the young man interrupted abruptly, showing just as much surprise at the words as his parents.

"What?" John asked, confusion lacing his tone. "Sam, I thought—"

"I wish I could stay." Tears welled in Sam's eyes, and his voice cracked as he continued. "I _want _to stay so badly."

Mary stood, making her way around the table and crouching down beside him. "Then stay, Sammy." She brushed a stray hair away from his face and used her thumb to wipe the first tear that broke from the barrier. "Stay here."

Sam shook his head. "I . . . _Dean_ . . . ."

John shifted in his chair. "Son, you'll see him eventually."

"He can't be alone, Dad," Sam protested quietly. "He can't be the only one. I . . . I've felt that before. He can't—he _won't _survive."

Mary and John shared a look. It was true. As much as they wanted their son to stay with them, it wasn't right without the other.

"You're sure?" John asked, one last check.

Sam looked down at his mother, who was crying but smiled at him reassuringly. "Yeah," he whispered.

Mary surged forward, wrapping her arms around him. And that was the last part of heaven that Sam felt.

0 o 0 o 0

Sam woke to cold and ache and _noise_. His first thought was confusion, then came an overwhelming sense of terror. Finally, remembrance, understanding . . . and, for the briefest of moments, _regret_. He hurt—oh, did he hurt—_everywhere_. There wasn't a single part of him that wasn't screaming in agony.

He smelled kerosene. _A lot_ of kerosene. It hovered around his nose and mouth, suffocating him. He tried to cough but found that he couldn't. The muscles in his throat wouldn't constrict.

0 o 0 o 0

"Dean, _think_ about what you're doing!" Bobby yelled as the young man dumped the last of the kerosene on the make-shift pyre in Bobby's junkyard. If the man hadn't just reacquired the ability to walk, he would have stopped this nonsense before Dean had dragged his brother's body outside. And, damn it to hell, the others had gone into town for groceries.

"There's nothing to think about, Bobby," Dean said, stepping back and putting the kerosene tank down. "Sam's gone. You know what that means."

"Castiel says there's still a _chance_. You don't want to give him a _chance_?"

Dean dug into his pocket and brought out a lighter. "Give him a chance to _what_?" he asked, his tone dead. "_Rot_? I'm pretty sure he's done enough of that already."

"Dean," Castiel pleaded from beside Bobby. "Please, just—"

Dean flipped the cap off of his Zippo, thumbing back the wheel and watching it spark to life.

0 o 0 o 0

He could see. He could hear and he could feel. But for the life of him—assuming he _was_ alive and not in hell—he couldn't move or speak. Shapeless figures moved in the distance, colorless and muted.

"Dean," someone said. It was Bobby's voice.

_Bobby!_

"Somethin' ain't right."

_Bobby, fix this! Help me!_

"Yeah," Dean's voice said, and a small _thunk_ was heard. "He ain't in the ground."

Sam's heart sank, and the familiar sound of crackling fire filled his ears. Smoke swirled up his nostrils and down his throat. He was going to suffocate, and he wasn't even breathing. Heat enveloped him, and his eyes began to water.

0 o 0 o 0

Just as soon as the flames engulfed Sam's body, they were extinguished. Dean whirled around, finding Castiel's hand raised.

"_What are you doing_?" he yelled, but the angel merely walked determinedly toward the make-shift pyre and the scorched sheet covering Sam's body, brushing by Dean entirely.

Castiel ripped the sheet from the dead Winchester boy, looking down into Sam's _open_ eyes. "Sam?" he asked carefully, taking hold of the young man's shoulders and pressing his ear to Sam's chest. No movement, no heartbeat. "Come on, Sam," he muttered, raising himself from the body.

0 o 0 o 0

Sam didn't like how desperate the angel sounded. Granted, it was nice to know _someone_ was working to keep him—to _get _him?—alive, but it made the younger Winchester wonder how much had happened during his . . . _absence_.

"Sammy?" The voice was by his ear, breath harsh and stuttered. It was Dean. "Sammy, are you . . . ."

_I am, Dean_. Sam would have sobbed if he could. _I need your help! Help me!_

Sam's eyes shifted abruptly into a sharp focus, two hopeful faces appearing out of the shapeless gloom. He felt his throat constrict, his lungs expand, his lips part. And then the next sound to fill the heavy void surrounding him bubbled up his throat and spilled into the bated quiet in a terrifying moment of horror.

Sam gave a God-awful scream.

0 o 0 o 0

The scream that clawed its way from Sam's mouth was the most horrible noise that any of them had ever heard. If it had to be described, they might say that it was a mixture of horror and fury and ache, as if hell were trying to rip itself from his very bones. Horrible images flashed in front of their eyes—memories of suffering.

"_Sammy_!" Dean yelled, shaking his brother. "_Sam_! _Stop_!"

"_He can't_!" Castiel yelled beside him, pushing the young man away. With little hesitation, the angel leaned over Sam, placing two fingers on the Winchester boy's forehead. The screaming ceased immediately—no winding down, no drop off; just _nothing. _Sam's eyes closed again, and silence lingered in the air as the echo of the young man's screaming dissipated.

"Cas," Dean murmured breathlessly, "what did I do?"

"We need to move him," Castiel said bluntly, turning to the others and disregarding Dean completely. "He can't stay here."

"Cas," Dean said again, his gaze locked on his brother—his _living _brother, "what did I—"

"Dean," the angel growled, grabbing the young man's arm roughly and whipping him around, "shut up and help me move your brother."

Dean winced at the grip on his arm and the tone of Castiel's voice. It was the commanding tone that angels used when they were administering orders or decreeing the word of God . . . or _smiting_ something. It was the kind of tone that one usually heard right before fire started raining from the sky.

He nodded and turned toward the make-shift pyre, lifting Sam up and over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and starting toward the house.

0 o 0 o 0

Dean found himself , once, again, at Sam's bedside, holding his younger brother's limp hand. The only difference was that Sam's hand was warm, and Dean could feel a steady pulse throbbing beneath the young man's wrist.

"When will he wake up?" he asked quietly, his first words in over four hours.

Castiel, who had not moved from the furtherest corner of the room—arms crossed and a scowl twisting his lips—said curtly, "When I wake him up."

Dean reluctantly tore his gaze away from Sam and looked at the angel, frowning. "So, what? You're mad at me now?" he said defensively.

Castiel started forward, positioning himself on the other side of Sam and towering over the both of them. "No," he said quietly, though the look he was giving Dean was _anything _but calm. "I am angry about the fact that you didn't trust your brother. That you didn't trust _me_." Dean opened his mouth to speak, but the angel held up a hand, taking a deep breath and attempting to soften his look. "What happened to you? Why did you give up on him so easily?" He gestured toward Sam.

Dean, who had been eager to defend himself only seconds before, deflated and looked defeatedly down at this brother. "I didn't . . . ." he started, then closed his eyes and shook his head. "I didn't _want _him to come back."

"After _everything_?" Castiel demanded, his temper flaring again. "After what he's been through? What _I've _been through?"

"They were right," the eldest Winchester son conceded. "Sam was in heaven. He was with our parents. He was . . . _happy_."

"I told you that before."

"Yeah, and it wasn't _true_ then, was it?" Dean spat, standing and letting Sam's hand drop to the bed. "If I hadn't sent you after him, he'd be stuck in some frickin' _Field of Asphodel_."

"And if _you _hadn't made me tell him about descending, he might still be with your parents," Castiel countered. He had never had this heated of a conversation before, and he wondered whether the growing need to _kiss _the other man was normal or not.

"I tried to burn his body so he could _stay_!" Dean shouted. "I didn't want him resenting me because I'm the asshole who took away what he really wanted!"

"No, you're just the _asshole _who he loves enough to give up eternity in heaven for."

Dean started abruptly, almost having to take a step back from the verbal punch. Castiel's shoulders sagged, and he donned a look of exhaustion. "He wouldn't _be_ here if I hadn't told him how much _you _wanted him alive." The Winchester boy stood dumbfounded for a moment before his feet moved him around the bed and into the angel's arms.

Castiel couldn't help it. His lips automatically found Dean's, familiar and warm and _wanting_. Spinning the young man around, he pressed him against the wall, Dean's fingers clutching desperately at the hair at the nape of the angel's neck. Castiel fisted the fabric of the young man's shirt at his broad shoulders, pressing himself ever-further against him.

Their hips clashed, and their mouths broke apart as simultaneous gasps rose from their throats. Swallowing hard, Dean glanced over Castiel's shoulder at his brother uncertainly. "You sure," he said breathlessly, "that he can't wake up . . . until you make him?"

"Positive." The angel barely got the word out before Dean was attached to him again, swiveling them both around until their positions were reversed.

If asked, Dean wouldn't be able to describe his relationship with Castiel. It wasn't spur-of-the-moment, but it hadn't taken long for either of them to realize that something was shifting them closer together. It had happened much the same way their current situation had put them in—not that Sam had died the last time . . . They had been fighting, though. Anger and shouting and _heat_. Neither of them could get to a bed fast enough.

But it was the first kiss that had hooked Dean. It wasn't like any kiss he'd ever felt. His body had _hummed_, his mind had _jolted_, as if something deep inside had finally been awakened. Castiel explained that the feeling was what happened when a human and an angel met in intimacy for the first time. He hadn't felt that with Anna, though—and they were pretty _intimate_. Anna had not yet been restored to her full angel status, Castiel explained. If she had, Dean would have been bound to her, and her only.

"So, I'm 'bound' to you, then?" Dean had asked, unable to conjure up enough anger to sound indignant. He had to admit—it was _hot_. And speaking of . . . .

Castiel groaned and gasped as Dean began to rock against him. The young man watched his lover's face contort with pleasure, this angel that he was bound to and was, in turn, bound to him. No, he watched the face of a _man _who kept captive the angel he had never seen. Had Sam seen him—seen Castiel's real form in heaven?

The thought of his brother, coupled with the small sting of jealousy, made Dean stop, and Castiel opened his eyes. Confusion laced his normally clouded orbs, and the older of the Winchester brothers felt immediately guilty. Swallowing, he opened his mouth to explain, but the words were stuck to the back of his throat. Taking a steadying breath, Dean tried again, but before he could speak, Castiel shook his head, pulling him close.

He held the young man tightly, one hand clenching the fabric of Dean's shirt and the other cupping the back of his neck. "Let's wake your brother up," he whispered, and Dean nodded into the angel's shoulder.

0 o 0 o 0

They watched as Castiel entered the den with as stoic a look as ever, their sleep-deprived minds perking as he locked gazes with each of them in turn, then looked behind him. Dean made his way into the den carefully, a pale, staggering, and very _alive_ Sam Winchester leaning against him for support.

Jo was the first to surge forward and envelope the risen man in a hug that nearly knocked him off of his feet. But he was smiling, and he wrapped an arm around her, reveling in the familiar smell of her hair.

"Hey, Jo," he whispered, his voice cracked and dry from lack of use. Ellen was next, considerably more gentle than her daughter but just as happy to see him. "Ellen," he said happily, gratitude emanating from this being. Ash offered a generous pat to the should and a beer, which Sam declined, accepting water from Jo instead.

Last was Bobby, and Sam's smile faltered, then grew wider when he saw the man on his feet.

"Bobby," he choked, taking a step toward the man.

Bobby engulfed him, squeezing him as tightly as he could. "No more of this, you hear?" he said, his voice husky.

Sam chuckled and nodded. "Yeah," he agreed. Suddenly, Sam's stomach gave a loud protest of hunger, making the group laugh. "Guess I'm hungry."

"Well, into the kitchen with you," Ellen said with a gentle shove in the right direction, her motherly instincts kicking in. "Any suggestions?"

Dean, swiveling aground with his brother awkwardly as his main support, said vigorously, "Pie!"

Ellen whapped him on the back of the head. "I mean _Sam_."

The elder of the Winchester boys eagerly whispered in his brother's ear. "Say 'pie.'" Sam smiled, through he couldn't shake the feeling that pie brought to his stomach.

He remembered. Vaguely, but he could almost taste the remnants of his mother's pies ion his tongue. "Mom makes good pie," he said absently.

Dean jerked to a stop, and Sam realized his mistake. A moment of silence passed between them before Dean turned his head to look at his brother with a smile. "Yeah," he said. "She did."

0 o 0 o 0

Sam didn't want to talk. He didn't want to do other things either, of course, like eat _everything _on his plate at breakfast, lunch, and dinner (including vegetables), or go to bed early and sleep in late, or sit around and watch television while the others did housework or went to the grocery store or, occasionally, went hunting.

But most of all, Sam didn't want to _talk—_not about his death, not about his afterlife, and _definitely_ not about his parents.

Most days, Sam could be found sitting on the back porch swing, his eyebrows furrowed in thought and his foot nudging the swing back and forth absently.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said when he found the young man exactly where he expected him to be, taking a seat beside him. "Brought you something."

Sam's gaze shifted lazily to the bag of honey bar-be-que potoato chips, and Dean sighed when he made no move to take them. "They're your favorite."

"Thanks," Sam murmured, his eyes shifting again to stare out at the waning light falling over the junkyard.

One week, and, though Sam looked better, he still seemed . . . _off_. The elder of the two set the bag on the swing between them and settled in for the awkward silence that always followed his attempts at conversation.

"She looked . . . ."

The words startled Dean, and he looked at Sam abruptly, holding his breath in anticipation of the next words.

"She looked great," Sam said with a smile.

"Yeah?" the other asked, his voice husky.

Sam nodded, looking down at his lap. "Beautiful," he whispered. "And Dad—" He smiled. "—looked happy. More happy than . . . than I ever saw him." For the first time since his brother's return, Dean felt jealous—then immensely guilty. "We talked," Sam continued, meeting Dean's eyes. "About you."

"_Me_?" Dean asked with surprise.

Sam nodded. "And me. About—_us_." He sighed. "Mom didn't like some of the stories."

"Oh . . . ."

Sam smirked. "Dad looked proud as hell." Dean chuckled. "And then . . . I told them I had to leave."

Smile fading, the elder of the two looked down at his wringing hands. "They wanted you to stay."

"Yes," the other admitted without hesitation. ". . . At first."

Dean's head swiveled back in his direction. " 'At first'?"

Sam met Dean's gaze levelly. "I told them I had to come back—for _you_." Tears welled in both their eyes. "And they said they'd be waiting." At Dean's inquiring look, Sam smiled gently. "For _us_."

Dean leaned forward, stopping the rocking motion of the swing and looking out over the now dark junkyard. "Sam . . . Cas said some things . . . ."

"About?" Sam asked, but his tone conveyed little curiosity.

"About you being _here_ instead of . . . _there_," Dean replied, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth. "He said you'd . . . be in pain."

"Oh," the young man said in the same emotionless voice.

Dean looked up incredulously. " '_Oh_'?" he demanded. "What do you mean 'oh'? Are you . . . Do you . . . You're in pain, aren't you?" Dean could have kicked himself. It sounded as if he _wanted_ Sam to be in pain, that the elder of the two would be angry if he weren't.

Sam shrugged one shoulder, resisting the urge to curl in on himself. "Sure," he said.

" 'Sure'?" Dean repeated. "Sam—"

"It's gong to hurt, Dean," the younger brother interrupted quietly. "I can't stop it, and neither can you." He smiled sadly. "But I'm here."

Dean choked. "Why do I feel like you're giving me an 'I'm dying' speech?"

Sam absently rubbed at his chest through the soft fabric of his thin, cotton T-shirt. "We're all dying, Dean."

"But I just got you_ back_."

Sam sighed. "And I'm not going anywhere anytime soon."

AN: So, that's part one. Please don't kill me. I am a slave to my fingers, really I am. They do all the writing. I just watch.

And for those of you interested, here's a sneak-peak of part two:

"_What's your problem?"_

"_Nothing!" Dean protested, though his facial expression clearly said that there was. "I just think . . . ." He gritted his teeth and shook his head. "Forget it."_

"_No," Sam said angrily, "I want to know. Just say it." _

_Dean still looked uncertain, almost guilty about the words he wanted to say. "Are . . . ." He faltered but took a breath and tried again. "Are you sure you should be out here?" _

_A low growl emitted from Sam's throat, and he turned away, wishing he didn't have to depend on the other at the moment. A good storm-off would have really made his point. "Why do you keep bringing this up?" he said with annoyance. _

_Dean frowned. "Because you keep giving me _reasons _to bring it up," he protested. "Sam, you're not _fine_. Something's _wrong_ with you." _

_Sam's face fell, and he reluctantly turned back to his brother, giving him a knowing look. _

_The elder of the two swallowed hard. "So, I'm not just being paranoid," he said with a mixture of relief and a new round of worry. "Something _is _wrong." _

_Sam crossed his arms protectively, suddenly uncomfortable with the close proximity. Biting the inside of his cheek, he debated whether or not he wanted Dean to know. "I don't think we should talk about it here," he decided finally. "Let's just . . . take care of the body and go back to the motel."_

_The older Winchester boy nodded without hesitation. "Okay," he said quietly, glancing back at the corpse that lay sprawled where they had left it. "I'll go get what we need from the car."_

And there you have it. Hope it sounds interesting enough! Catch you all on the flip side, gators!


	5. Part 2: Chapter 1

AN: Thank you for all the support for the first part of this fic! I can't believe I'm already so far into part two. I think I've written four or five chapters already...Well, here's the first! I hope it's interesting enough. And just to keep things legal....

Disclaimer: I do not own the television show _Supernatural_. I do not own the characters of the television show _Supernatural_.

Warning: This part contains a more heavy relationship between Dean and Castiel. It also focuses a little on the beginnings of a relationship between Sam and Gabriel. o.O I KNOW, right? Just read. It's better than it sounds, honest. *winkwink*

Enjoy!

Part Two

Chapter One

Sam's arms shook as he raised the dagger above his head, the weapon grasped by both hands in a failed attempt to steady it. His breath came in harsh, wheezing gasps, his knees aching as they pressed into the wet, leaf-strewn ground. The demon that glared up at him through the wide, innocent eyes of a teenage girl snarled.

He didn't falter. There was no use—she'd killed her parents and three baby brothers, been shot and stabbed (probably raped). If there _was _still a girl in there, it would be a miracle. And it would be a blessing to kill her.

Bringing the dagger down with violent force, Sam let loose a primal yell and grimaced when the weapon easily pierced perfect skin. The girl's eyes went wide as her body seemed to electrify, then her struggling stopped. Ruby's dagger still, apparently, had some use.

The young man sat quietly for a long time, looking into her dead eyes and concentrating on getting his breathing under control. He wondered how scared she must have been, waking up one morning and having no control over her body, watching as she killed her family and unable to do anything about it. Sam had looked through her things when he and his brother were investigating her disappearance. She'd had plans—boys, prom, college. And now she was dead.

"Sam?" Dean's frantic voice rang loudly in the wooded area, accompanied by the sound of leaves crunching and scattering under heavy boots. "Sammy, answer me!"

"Here," Sam whispered exhaustedly, closing his eyes and swallowing. "Here, Dean."

The rustling stopped, and the older's voice came again, this time filled with hopeful relief. "Sammy?"

"I'm . . . I'm here," Sam called, his voice louder, but his tone defeated and tired. "Dean, I—"

Dean appeared from the dense thicket of surrounding trees, his eyes wild with worry. "Sam!" he breathed, falling on his knees beside his brother and reaching toward him. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

Sam brushed off Dean's attempts at checking him over. "I'm fine," he said, trying to stand. His legs collapsed from under him, forcing Dean to catch the younger man before he fell face-first into leaves and mud.

" 'Fine' my ass," Dean muttered, slinging Sam's arm over his shoulder and steadying the young man. "I told you to wait."

"She was getting away," Sam argued as they started into the woods. "I had to go after her."

"I said I'd handle it."

"I _handled_ it instead." Sam stopped walking, taking his arm from around his brother's shoulders. "What's your problem?"

"Nothing!" Dean protested, though his facial expression clearly said that there was. "I just think . . . ." He gritted his teeth and shook his head. "Forget it."

"No," Sam said angrily. "I want to know. Just _say _it."

Dean still looked uncertain, almost guilty, about the words he wanted to say. "Are . . ." He faltered but took a breath and tried again. "Are you sure you should be out here?"

A low growl emitted from Sam's throat, and he turned away, wishing he didn't have to depend on the other at the moment. A good storm-off would have really made his point.

"Why do you keep bringing this up?" he said with annoyance.

Dean frowned. "Because you keep giving me _reasons _to bring it up," he protested. "Sam, you're not _fine_. Something's . . . _wrong _with you."

Sam's face fell, and he reluctantly turned back to his brother, giving him a knowing look.

The elder of the two swallowed hard. "So, I'm not just being paranoid," he said with a mixture of relief and a new round of worry. "Something _is _wrong."

Sam crossed his arms, suddenly uncomfortable with their close proximity. Biting the inside of his cheek, he debated whether or not he wanted Dean to know. "I don't think we should talk about it here," he decided finally. "Let's just . . . take care of the body and go back to the motel."

The older Winchester boy nodded without hesitation. "Okay," he said quietly, glancing back at the corpse that lay sprawled where they had left it. "I'll go get what we need from the car."

0 o 0 o 0

Sam collapsed exhaustedly on the motel bed, his eyes closing and his breathing evening out automatically. He knew Dean wanted to talk—the thought had been churning his stomach since they'd burned and buried the body and started back to their temporary residence. He also knew that he was being a complete asshole by avoiding the inevitable conversation. Dean wouldn't attempt to wake him if he feigned sleep. Sam was barely getting enough as it was, and he was well aware that his brother wouldn't interrupt him for anything except the one thing he seemed to be getting less than sleep.

"Sam—" Speaking of which . . . . "—I'm going to get something to eat." Dean paused for a moment, wishing for once that he didn't have to ask, that Sam would jump up eagerly and say, _I'm starving! Let's go, already! _But he didn't, so Dean had to ask. "You want anything?"

"No, thanks," Sam muttered his usual answer.

" 'Kay." Dean knew he would buy something for the young man anyway, just like he knew it would wind up uneaten in tomorrow's trash. "Be back in a while." Sam winced as the door was slammed shut.

0 o 0 o 0

The only thing that came close to a bacon cheese burger, in Dean's opinion, was a cheddar roast beef sandwich. Parked outside an Arby's, the young man sat, sandwich in hand and halfway to his watering mouth. His cellphone rang, and he sighed, mildly hoping it was Sam having changed his mind about eating.

"Yeah?" he answered gruffly.

"Dean, where are you?" Castiel's voice was curt, his question to the point.

"Arby's," Dean answered, taking a bite of his food. "Hehway sevenny."

The line went dead, and Dean wasn't surprised to find the angel opening the passenger-side door of his car before he had a chance to snap his cellphone shut.

"Cas," he greeted, taking another bite of his sandwich.

Castiel opened his mouth to speak but faltered at the sight and the smell of the food. "What are you eating?" he asked, not sure whether his tone should convey curiosity or disgust. Dean pulled out the extra sandwich he had bought for Sam and thrust it in the angel's direction. After a moment's hesitation, Castiel unwrapped the offered food and took a tentative bite. Deciding that is didn't taste as bad as it looked, he began to eat as well.

"So," Dean said casually, "what's going on?"

Castiel stopped chewing, loudly swallowing the contents in his mouth. "You called _me_, Dean. You left me several angry messages. I couldn't figure out how to skip to the next one, so I listened to _all _of them."

Dean's eyebrows rose in mock astonishment. "All seventeen, huh?"

The angel frowned. "You cursed."

"Yeah." The young man grinned with amusement.

"A lot."

"Well, maybe you'll answer your phone the next time I call," Dean said simply, shrugging and taking another bite of his sandwich.

Castiel's frown deepened as he reached into the bag sitting between them, pulling out a few curly fries and taking an experimental nibble.

"Here," Dean said, holding out a chocolate shake, "dip them in this."

The angel wrinkled his nose skeptically at the suggestion but complied. After a moment of chewing the soggy, sweet-and-salty concoction, his eyebrows shot up in surprise. "That . . . is disgusting."

"Yeah," Dean confirmed, dipping his own fries into the shake and stuffing them in his mouth. He offered the bag. "Wan' mo'?"

Castiel considered the bag, then said, "Yes."

0 o 0 o 0

The drive back to the motel was filled with Dean's concerned ranting. Sam wasn't eating. Sam was barely sleeping. Sam was keeping secrets. And Sam just wasn't _Sam._

" 'Wrong'?" Castiel repeated the word that Dean had used excessively.

"He isn't _right_, Cas," the young man said imploringly as he pulled into the motel lot and parked in front of their room. "There's something he's keeping from me. He said we'd talk about it, but . . . ." Dean faltered. "I'm almost afraid of what he's going to say."

Castiel finished off the last of the chocolate shake, disappointedly slurping the remains through the straw. "He said he wold discuss it with you," he said simply, "so wait until he's ready to discuss it with you."

"Cas—"

"I guarantee whatever he has to say is not going to be something you want to hear," the angel interrupted. "You should accept that now and save yourself the trouble it could cause later."

"Cas—"

"I won't do this for you, Dean. Whatever Sam is keeping secret is for _you_ to find out."

Dean looked uncertain. "But—"

"I'll be here," Castiel affirmed, offering the man an encouraging look.

Sighing, Dean removed the keys from the ignition and opened his door. "Thanks, Cas." He slammed the door shut.

"You're welcome," the angel said to the unoccupied drivers seat.

0 o 0 o 0

Dean entered the motel to the sound of the shower running and grit his teeth. He'd hoped that Sam would at least have gotten some sleep while he was gone. The younger man had seemed completely wiped out when Dean had left for food.

He knocked on the bathroom door before entering. "Sam?"

The young man poked his head around the shower curtain, shampoo suds dripping from the ends of his wet, tangled hair. "Huh?" he asked, eyebrows rising.

"Cas is here," Dean said, completely bypassing the _we-need-to-talk_ speech.

Sam's eyebrows remained high on his forehead, his gaze shifting slightly then leveling back on his brother. "Um . . . Cas?"

"Yeah. _Cas_," the older Winchester boy reiterated impatiently. "_Castiel_. He's here to . . . help. And I think you should listen to what he—"

"Dean," Sam interrupted, holding up a hand, "who the hell are you talking about?"

Dean's stomach dropped. "You're . . . You're joking, right?"

Sam continued to stare at him blankly, as if the memory was there but unfocused, just out of reach. The older of the two stood frozen to the bathroom tiles.

"Cas," he called weakly, able to turn his head toward the motel bedroom and raise his voice out of sheer panic. "Cas!"

The angel was there instantly, standing in the door frame of the bathroom. Dean grabbed his arm before he could say anything, shoving him in Sam's direction.

"Look at him, Sammy," the older brother encouraged. "You _know_ him."

Sam studied the confused angel for a moment, his mind firing random memories at him. After a short moment, it dawned on him, and his face fell. "Oh," he said quietly.

" 'Oh'?" Dean asked almost desperately, wanting much, much more than some single-syllable word.

Sam gave each of them a hard look, opening his mouth and taking a short breath. "I'm going to finish my shower."

And with that, he disappeared behind the curtain.

0 o 0 o 0

"Is this what you were talking about?" Dean demanded impatiently, pacing in front of the motel bed that his brother sat on. Sam, in sweats and a tattered Metallica T-shirt—one of Dean's—lazily rubbed his wet hair with a towel that smelled a little like engine grease.

Shrugging, the young man said, "I guess."

"You _guess_?" Dean nearly shouted, shooting his brother an incredulous look. "What, are we in _middle school_?" He huffed, his pacing becoming more determined. " 'I guess' is not an answer. 'Dean, I think I'm losing my mind' _is _an answer." The elder of the two whirled around to face the other. "_When _were you going to tell me?"

Sam looked up guiltily. "Every time I build up the courage, I . . . I forget."

"This is _beyond_ stupid, Sammy," Dean fumed, his pacing resuming. "You could have been _killed_ on one of these hunts. A second's hesitation . . . ." Dean's stomach lurched at the thought of all the close calls they'd had these past few months. It was more than usual. Could they have been the result of Sam's condition?

"When did this start happening?" Castiel voiced what would have been Dean's next question. These brothers were going to be the end of him. He could feel it.

"Just after . . . ." Sam started, hesitating. "After I came back."

If Dean thought that he could bring Sam back _again_, he would have strangled the young man right then and there. As it was, they were already pushing their luck.

The elder Winchester boy, unable to say anything further to his idiotic brother, turned on the angel standing beside him. "Cas, what the _hell _is going on?" He pointed at Sam. "Why can't you _fix _him?"

Castiel frowned. He'd tried his _angel mojo _on Sam, which hadn't done anything in the least—except make the angel aware of how powerless he was against whatever was happening. "I don't know." His gaze leveled on Sam, who was absently staring at his wringing hands. "But I'm going to find out."

0 o 0 o 0

Casitel, once again, found himself somewhere he didn't want to be.

"You return?" a voice echoed from the Council. "After the grace we permitted you last time?"

"I require nothing more than answers, now," Castiel promised, unwavering under the scrutiny of his brethren.

"Answers that we are not so hasty to give," the voice said stoically.

If Castiel had been corporeal, he would have ground his teeth. "I feel that your hesitation would be a mistake."

"We believe you _feel _too bluntly, brother. Your emotions cloud your judgment when the Winchesters are involved."

"The Winchesters require a . . . different tactic," Castiel explained. "They cannot be swayed by power alone."

"And these 'tactics' of yours—" The voice sounded almost _smug_. It was annoying how much inflection could be put into an emotionless tone. "—they include your _activities_ with the eldest Winchester son?"

Even without a body, Castiel was certain that he was blushing. "What I do with my spare time—"

"You _have _no spare time." The light that owned the voice flared brilliantly. "Your assignment has been to watch the brothers since you made the mistake of bringing Dean Winchester back from hell."

"It was necessary. The prophecy states—"

"Do not preach prophecy to us, Castiel!" the voice boomed. "Your interference has already set into motion the beginnings of the Apocalypse."

Castiel remained silent. There wasn't much he could say when what they accused him of was the truth. "I am doing my best to remedy the situation," he said carefully.

The voice was much calmer, more at ease, as it replied, "We are aware of this. That is why you have been restored to your former status."

"And I am grateful," the angel was quick to say. "I just . . . ." He hesitated, and the Council waited patiently in the silence. "What is happening to Sam Winchester? Why . . . Why is my power not enough to help him?" Murmurs broke out amongst the observers.

"_He does not know."_

"_He has been cut off for too long."_

"_What will he do once he knows?"_

"_Sam Winchester will not survive under his protection."_

The last whispered statement both angered and worried him. Was it true? Was there another part of the prophecy that stated he would be unable to help the youngest of the Winchesters?

"Silence," the voice called, and the murmurs ceased. "Castiel." The voice sounded almost . . . _regretful_. "You will not succeed in saving Sam Winchester."

"What?" Castiel whispered. "What do you mean? What's going to happen?"

The voice's light flickered, faltered. "Sam Winchester is dying."

AN: Well, next chapter up soon. Promise! It's already written. I just have to find the time between submitting applications for a teaching job and working at a grocery store to type it up.

Also, **SPOILER FOR SEASON 5 FINALE **... Uh, sort of. Did anyone else get the impression that maybe CHUCK was GOD? I mean, the more I think about it, the less likely it seems. He disappeared and all, but that could just be because he was a prophet who was done prophesying and had no other work to complete...but the thought that he _could _have been God still wiggles at the back of my mind. Any thoughts?

Later, Gators! Catch you on the flip side.


	6. Part 2: Chapter 2

AN: Okay, this chapter is somewhat short, so I'm posting both chapters two _and _three. As a treat! I wanted to turn them into one long chapter, but the way this one ended, it just couldn't be done. So, enjoy this one! And the next one!

Chapter Two

Castiel returned to the Winchester boys with a heavy burden weighing on his mind. He had never had difficulty giving bad news—Sodom and Gomorrah, Moses and the ten plagues, even the crucifixion of the Messiah himself. So why was it when Dean Winchester looked at him like that, with all the hope in the world riding in those eyes, he couldn't bear to give the information that was passed to him.

"Well?" Dean asked quietly. Sam lay asleep on the bed behind him, his tall frame stretched languidly across the length of the mattress. He looked peaceful, without worry. "Cas," Dean whispered, and the angel's gaze shifted back to the eldest brother. "Why are you looking at him like that?"

Castiel furrowed his eyebrows. "Like what?" He hadn't been aware he was looking at Sam a certain way. Had he given himself away already?

"Like . . . ." The young man hesitated, looking uncertain as he glanced over his shoulder. "Like you're already _mourning _him. Like . . . ." Dean's breath hitched in his throat. "Cas . . . is he dying?"

The muscles in the angel's neck rippled as he clenched his jaw. It was the question that he'd hoped Dean would ask. A morbid thought, yes, but it was far easier to answer a _yes _or _no_ question than to outright say _you're brother is dying_. "Yes," he murmured through gritted teeth, the word leaving a bitter taste on his tongue.

Dean stood very still, the only movement being the trembling of his chin. Again—Sam was dying again, right here in front of him. And _again_ there was nothing he could do about it. Wasn't it enough already? Hadn't they both died enough times to count for _something_? _Anything_? Sam was a good person—better than Dean in every way. So why was it that Sam seemed to get the brunt of the universe's angst? What was it about Sam that screamed _I'm ready to die! Come and get me_? "How . . . How do we fix it?"

"We don't," Castiel replied bluntly, wishing he could say different. But the Council had been very clear. Sam was going to die. And there was nothing that either of them could do to stop it.

Sam stirred on the bed, groaning as consciousness breached his sleep.

Dean scrubbed at his eyelids with frantic fingers, attempting to erase any evidence of his distress. Leveling the angel with a dark look, he said, "Not a word."

Castiel frowned with disapproval. "Dean—"

"Not. A. Word," the young man warned, turning around and starting toward his brother's bed. "Hey, Sammy," he said quietly, sitting beside the young man. "You should go back to sleep. It's four in the morning."

"Then why are _you _awake?" Sam yawned.

Dean ignored the question. "You hungry?"

Sam stopped rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, staring at his brother carefully. For a moment, Dean was worried the young man would call him out, demand to know what was happening. Instead, Sam merely nodded. "Starving," he said to the older's surprise.

"Yeah?" Dean asked hopefully, his eyebrows raised.

Forcing a smile, Sam swallowed the bile that rose to the back of his throat at the mere _thought _of food. "Yeah."

Dean's lips spread in a relieved grin. "Okay," he said, standing and grabbing his keys. "I'll be back." Opening the door, he halted, turning back around with an inquisitive look. Sam held his breath. "What are you up for?"

The young man released the breath and shrugged. "Whatever you can find at 4 am."

"Right," Dean nodded, shutting the door behind him.

The smile slipped from Sam's face, and his attention shifted to the angel standing in a dark corner of the room. "Cas," he said, and the angel stepped forward, looking apprehensive. Sam's eyes narrowed. "What's going on?"

0 o 0 o 0

Dean was in the drive-thru at a McDonald's when he realized what Sam had done. He paid for the food anyway and drove back to the motel in a rage. Sam was alone with Castiel, and there was no way that the angel had the resolve to keep information from him. Dean had made it very clear to the angel that if they were going to have a _relationship_, Castiel could not favor him over Sam. If push came to shove, Sam's life was more important. Period. Castiel had agreed to these terms, seeming to dote on the young man sometimes. If Sam asked him what was going on, Castiel was going to tell him—every last detail.

Dean's anger lasted all the way to the motel door—the second his fingers wrapped around the doorknob, worry flooded his mind. Sam probably knew everything that Cas had found out. _Dean _didn't even know yet, and the fact that his younger brother knew things about his own death while Dean knew absolutely nothing scared the hell out of him.

So, it was with a large amount of trepidation that Dean twisted the doorknob and entered the motel room to . . . _nothing_.

0 o 0 o 0

"I'm telling you, Bobby, they're just _gone_!" Dean yelled into the phone.

Bobby's solemn voice crackled from the other end. "All right, Dean, calm down."

" '_Calm down_'?" The young man kicked the motel bed that his brother was supposed to be in. _Damn it, Sammy_. "How the hell am I supposed to calm down?"

"Freaking out isn't gonna help you find your brother any faster," Bobby barked sternly, taking hold of the situation. "You need to get it together, boy."

Dean's knees gave out as his anger and adrenalin dissipated, and he collapsed to the bed. Leaning forward, he covered his eyes with the hand that wasn't holding the phone. "I have to find him, Bobby," he whispered desperately. "Something's . . . wrong."

The other end was quiet for a minute. "What do you mean?"

Dean swallowed hard, taking a steadying breath before speaking again. "Castiel found out something about Sam."

"Found out _what_?"

"I don't know," the young man said softly.

"Dean." There was a hint of warning in the man's tone.

"I don't _know_, Bobby," Dean said defensively, his voice cracking. "I just . . . ."

"Just _what_?"

The young man swallowed a sob, feeling it form a lump in the pit of his throat. "He's dying," he breathed into the receiver. "Sammy's dying."

0 o 0 o 0

"This is not a good idea, Sam," Castiel protested, his gaze sweeping their surroundings carefully.

They were in a bar—a small, run-down building in Martinsburg, Nebraska; population: 103. Scantily-clad waitresses weaved between crowded tables carrying trays of fries, fried cheeseballs, burgers, and copious amounts of varied alcohol bottles. Grease hung in the air, permeating Sam's skin and clothes. He felt nauseous and had to close his eyes to keep from regurgitating what little he had in his stomach.

"This isn't your decision," he said quietly, turning his head away as a nearby customer belched rancid beer-breath in his direction. A majority of the patrons were college students, the remaining being locals, who didn't seem to mind the extra chatter at all.

Castiel glanced around warily. "Dean said—"

"This isn't _Dean's _decision, either," Sam spat curtly. "And last I checked, he wasn't the one _dying_."

An elderly couple behind Castiel turned in their direction, offering the young man a curious look. It wasn't hard, Sam suspected, to imagine he was dying just by looking at him. He wasn't blind—he'd seen himself in the mirror; jagged joints protruding from his elbows, shoulders, hips, knees, while his ribs jutted out over a pot-holed abdomen. And everywhere skin stretched across bone like it was just glued in place, no muscles to speak of.

Yes, Sam was very aware of how he looked, and as the couples' gazes changed from curiosity to sympathy, he became increasingly self-conscious.

"When is he supposed to be here?" the young man muttered just as a man in a cooks outfit approached them.

"What'll you have, boys?" he asked, waving his grease-splattered spatula. Sam looked away, steeling himself for the bout of nausea that rose up in his throat.

"Nothing, thank you," he said huskily, resisting the urge to breath in the scent of grill smoke and raw meat.

"Ah, come now, Sammy," the cook said, taking a seat beside Castiel and facing the young man with a gleaming smile. "You need to put some meat on those bones. You're not looking very healthy at _all_."

The sick feeling in his stomach temporarily forgotten, Sam leaned forward over the table, his eyes narrowing. "Trickster."

AN: On to the next chapter! Mush, readers, mush!


	7. Part 2: Chapter 3

AN: As promised....

Chapter Three

The Trickster's grin widened, and he gave Sam a friendly pat on the arm. "Always nice to see you, Sammy," he said with false sincerity. "How have you been?"

"Dying," Sam stated bluntly. "How about yourself?"

The Trickster pointed his spatula at Sam with an amused smile. "Always one for the dramatics." His gaze turned onto Castiel, and his smile turned wicked. "Cas! How are you, brother?"

Sam perked up at this, his gaze flitting to the angel. Brother? There was only one way that these two could be brothers . . . .

"Gabriel," Castiel greeted reluctantly.

Again, Sam was taken aback. "Gabriel?" he asked incredulously as the Trickster turned back to him. "As in . . . _the _Gabriel?"

"As in the messenger of God himself," the newly-named angel boasted, puffing out his chest and looking smug.

Sam frowned. "So, what, they kicked you out?" He took a little satisfaction in the scowl that Gabriel offered him, though it was short-lived as the angel-turned-Trickster pointed his greasy spatula at him again. Sam wouldn't last much longer in this place.

"Do you know how fast I could whip you up into one of those burgers back there and serve you up to some old man who has to glue his dentures in just to chew?" Gabe threatened. Again, the elderly couple turned around to look at them. The angel gave them a cheesy smile. "No offense."

"Listen," Sam said sternly, bringing the attention back on himself, "we're looking for someone."

"Well, _everyone's _looking for someone, champ," Gabe said with a chuckle. "And don't you worry—there's someone out there for _you_, too." He made to playfully nudge Sam's chin with his knuckles, but the young man backed away, holding up one hand and using the other to cover his mouth and nose.

Gabe pulled his hand back and frowned. "Who is it, exactly, that you're looking for?"

Sam swallowed the rising bile in his throat and took a shallow breath. "We're looking for Lucifer."

Silence hung between them before Gabe spoke again, this time in a quieter tone. "That's a tall order, kid," he said solemnly. "You sure you want to fill it?"

"I need to see him." Sam's tone was final, his lips pressed together into thin lines. "_Soon_."

Gabe huffed. "So what do you need _me_ for? Wipe that crud off your ribs, he'll come running soon enough." He reached forward as if to do the job himself, but Castiel's hand struck out, fingers grasping the other angel's wrist tightly.

"Don't touch him," he said, his voice low and dangerous. The restaurant itself seemed to darken with his words. Gabriel backed down.

"Cas, you've gone soft in your old age," he said. "Maybe it's all that screwing around you're doing with the other one." Gabriel smirked in Sam's direction. "Or are you doing both of them now?"

Castiel's grip on his brother's wrist tightened. "Shut your mouth, Gabriel," he growled. The lights began to flicker.

"Tell me," the Trickster said quietly, leaning forward and pinning the young man with a steady gaze, "are you a top—" His eyes wandered over Sam's body lazily. "—or a bottom?"

Castiel's fingers released Gabriel's wrist, his other hand quickly grabbing the back of the other angel's neck and slamming his head face-first into the table.

Sam barely flinched, glancing around the diner fleetingly. Things continued as usual, making the young man wonder what exactly it was that everyone else was seeing—idle chatter between friends, a heated debate; or did they see what he was seeing and choose to ignore it? In any case, no one was bothering them, so he didn't do anything to stop it.

Castiel leaned down close to Gabriel's face, which was spurting blood from a broken nose and a couple of lost teeth. "Not another word," he warned in a near-whisper.

Frowning, Gabriel nodded compliantly, lifting his head from the table and spitting out a tooth. "That _almost _hurt," he muttered, straightening his nose and cracking his neck. Furious eyes leveled on Sam again. "So, you want Lucifer. Fine. How do _I _fit into all of this?"

"You're going to find him," Sam said slowly, avoiding the blood on the table as he placed his folded hands on the greasy surface, "tell him you have Sam Winchester—" The young man swallowed and took a breath, his face taking an anxious look. "—and that he has an answer for him."

0 o 0 o 0

"I should have seen it," Dean fumed, pacing Bobby's den. "I should have _known _right off the bat."

Bobby watched the young man from behind his desk, his feet tapping restlessly. Ever since Castiel had restored his ability to walk, he couldn't sit still for very long. Chairs were too confining, especially the ones with arm rests, and if he sat for too long, he started to feel claustrophobic. Dean's constant pacing wasn't helping.

"You thought you were helping," the older man consoled tiredly. Dean had been spouting things along the same line for over an hour, now. Bobby had been giving the same answers over and over again—not that Dean noticed.

"You said that already," the young man muttered absently. Apparently he was being more observant than Bobby thought.

"Kid," Bobby sighed, shifting in his desk chair, "wearin' a trench into my floor ain't gonna help your brother any."

"Then what _is_?" Dean snapped, turning to face the older hunter.

"_Think_, ya idjit," Bobby snapped back. "Bitchin' about it sure ain't doin' a whole helluva lot."

Dean clenched his jaw, holding back any smartass retorts he had on the tip of his tongue. Taking a seat on the couch, he rested his elbows on his knees and strung his fingers through short-cropped hair.

_Think_, he repeated to himself. He hated thinking. Sammy was the smart one. _He_ usually did all the thinking while Dean provided transportation and a dazzling array of muscle and weaponry skills. It was no secret that he'd envied his brother, being able to stand up to their father and run away to a life beyond massacre. Sammy never talked about his years of _freedom_. Dean had read a little bit about it through the _Supernatural _ book series—Sam's trip to the jewelry store to pick out the perfect ring, Sam's plans to propose on Jess's next birthday, Sam's stash of savings for a honeymoon in Europe—but other than that—

The young man stiffened abruptly, looking at the wall opposite him with wide eyes.

Bobby raised an eyebrow. _That was fast_, he thought. "What're you thinkin', Dean?" Dean stood, grabbing his jacket and starting for the door. "Dean!" Bobby shouted, and the young man whipped around, a wild look in his eyes. Before the older of the two could ask anything more, Dean uttered a name breathlessly, running out to the Impala and screeching out of the junkyard.

"Chuck."

0 o 0 o 0

"I'm not a messenger boy anymore," Gabe said with some indignation. He started to stand from the table, but Castiel grabbed his shoulder, forcing him back into the seat. "Look, go find Mercury. He's always happy to deliver a message."

"Lucifer will kill him before the message is delivered," Castiel explained. "He has no tolerance for the Romans. Or their gods."

"And you think he won't kill _me_?" Gabriel scoffed, shaking his head.

"You are his favorite brother," Castiel continued. "You fought on his behalf until he was banished from heaven."

"Yeah," the Trickster said, regret lacing his tone, "and then I stood back and watched Michael cast him out." He shook his head again. "I chose to stay. There's no way he's going to want to see me."

"He will," Sam said confidently, "if you mention my name."

Gabe narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips suggestively. "And what do _I _get out of all this?"

Sam swallowed, sharing an apprehensive look with Castiel. "Sounds like you already have something in mind." He repressed a shudder at the Trickster's wide grin. "What do you want?"

Gabe leaned forward. "You."

Sam straightened in his seat, his eyebrows furrowing. "Me?" The angel merely nodded. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Gabe said in a low voice, his eyebrows waggling, "Castiel, here, shouldn't be the only one having some fun." A wet tongue darted out over his bottom lip, leaving a shine in its wake. "If the Winchester boys are putting out, I think I'd like in on some of the action."

Sam bit the inside of his cheek, and Castiel made a low growling noise in the back of his throat. "Out of the question."

"Possessive," Gabe said with interest. "I can dig it. If you're really that worried about Sammy, Cas, you can always watch."

Sam cut in abruptly. "Cas and I aren't . . . ." He took a shallow breath. "We don't . . . ."

"Ah," Gabe said with satisfaction, the sound almost a purr. "So big brother is getting all the goodies, and little Celibate Sammy is left by his lonesome." He leaned further over the table, gaze burrowing deep into Sam's eyes. "Have you ever been fucked by an angel, Sam?" The young man's breath hitched, and he berated himself internally as his cheeks colored. "It's quite an experience. You should ask Dean all about it."

The strange thing was . . . he _had_.

0 o 0 o 0

About four months before Sam's death—his most _recent _death—the Winchester boys were hunting something that Dean had so eloquently dubbed "the Creature from the Black Lagoon." Sam left to do research at the local library. Halfway there, he realized he'd forgotten his laptop and turned the car around. The Impala should have tipped him off right from the start—the way that Dean had tossed him the keys, like he'd wanted to get rid of him.

Sam returned to the motel, finding the lights in their room were off. Instinct taught the young man to listen at the door, and what he heard made him sigh in aggravation. A month's worth of research on his computer, barely five feet from the door. The brothers had walked in on each other before, and it wasn't like he _wanted_ to disturb Dean and . . . his companion.

So he slipped into the room, inched along the wall, and ignored the sounds coming from Dean's bed. It was only when he shouldered his laptop bag and started back for the door that one particular noise became unavoidable.

Dean's gasped, "Cas," distracted him, causing his foot to snag one of the chairs at the small table near the door. Sam fell, scrambled in the dark, then froze when a light was flicked on. He was at the door, nose barely an inch from the doorknob. He cold run, say he hadn't seen anything. Who was to say that "Cas" didn't stand for "Cassie," "Cassandra," or the like?

"Sam?" Dean asked, his voice breathless and confused.

Again, Sam could have left right then, could have stood, grabbed his laptop, and made a break for the library. He could have . . . but he had to know. So he turned—and found exactly what he'd been dreading.

"Hi, Dean," he whispered, his eyes flitting to the other occupant in the bed. "Hi, Cas."

Dean sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He was shirtless, and his jeans were unbuttoned but still on. Castiel's shirt was unbuttoned, hanging from one arm in a tangle of white fabric. "Sam—"

"I just needed my laptop," the young man said quickly, fingers groping for the bag as he stumbled to his feet. "And I have it, so I should probably go now. You seem . . . busy."

"Sam, wait!" Dean grabbed his shirt from the floor and pulled it on hastily as Sam grappled with the doorknob. Finally, it twisted, and Sam flung the door open—only to be halted by a disheveled angel.

"Sam," Castiel said imploringly, reaching a hand out to grasp the young man's shoulder. Sam backed up against the open door, reluctantly looking back at his brother, who was keeping a fair amount of distance.

"Sammy, please," Dean whispered, holding his hands up as if to convey that he wasn't a threat. "Can we just . . . _talk_?"

Sam didn't want to talk. He would have been perfectly content ignoring the situation until the awkward road trips and lack of conversation and tense meetings with Cas erupted into something worse. None of this would have bothered him—_nope_.

But Dean was staring at him with desperation, a look that the younger man was sure he'd given his brother more times than not—how could he refuse?

So he nodded, sat in the chair that Dean put in front of the bed, and listened without interrupting as Dean and Castiel sat side-by-side opposite him and told their story. He watched as Dean, uncharacteristically anxious, fiddled with the loose end of Castiel's shirt (the buttons mismatched with their corresponding button holes and more than a few missing, besides) and the angel kept a reassuring hand on the small of his brother's back. Soon, Sam found himself watching the two more than actually listening.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, his voice almost timid, and the young man shook his head to clear it.

"Hm?"

Dean took a breath and held it a moment. "Do you have . . . _anything _to say?" Sam frowned and looked down at his hands, which were clasped tightly together.

"You are displeased?" Castiel asked curiously when the young man didn't answer.

Sam shook his head without hesitation. "No," he said, looking up so that his brother could see the truth in his eyes. "I'm not." He glanced between the two. "I'm . . . _surprised_, a little confused—" An easy smile slid onto his face. "—but I'm not angry."

Dean sighed with relief, closing his eyes briefly, then reached forward and placed a hand on his brother's knee. "This doesn't change anything," he promised sincerely, but Sam's smile only widened as he shook his head.

"This changes everything," he whispered.

0 o 0 o 0

There had, of course, been the awkward question-and-answer period after Castiel had left—How does it work? How does it feel? Can angels really _you know_? Do they use protection? Do they _need _protection? Does he still like girls? Does he like other guys, or is it just Castiel? What about Jimmy Novak, Castiel's vessel?

And the biggest question—Is it just sex . . . or is there more?

Dean had answered the questions graciously and, as always, with as few syllables as possible:

"It works _carefully_."

"It feels _interesting_."

"Oh, yeah. Angels can definitely _you know_."

"_Of course _we use protection."

"His _body _is still human, so protection is a big _yes_."

"_Fuck_ you, of _course_ I still like _girls_!"

"Castiel isn't a 'guy,' he's an angel. I've fucked an angel before."

"Jimmy ain't exactly complaining, if you know what I mean."

The last question had made him pause, however. Dean had had to stand and pace. Still no answer came to him. The younger of the two was certain that he knew the answer anyway.

As Sam's mind returned to the diner, he found the Trickster's amused eyes shining at him. "Twenty-four hours," the angel said softly. "That's what I want from you."

Sam blanched. "_Now_?"

Gabe's nose wrinkled and shook his head slightly. "Think I'll save it for a rainy day, after you've had some beauty sleep and a couple of hamburgers." The angel raised a hand, palm turned toward his face. Sam held his breath as Gabriel breathed a fine, amber mist onto his hand, his fingers sparkling as they twiddled. Lowering his hand, he held it across the table, smirking as he said, "Do we have a deal?"

Castiel opened his mouth as if to say something, but Sam beat him to it. "Ten hours."

"Sam," Cas said quietly, surprise and guilt in his voice as he shook his head. "Don't—"

"Twenty," Gabe stated, narrowing his eyes at the young man. "Ten's barely enough to get started."

Sam frowned pensively, his eyebrows drawing together and causing worry lines to crease his forehead. "Thirteen," he said without any real conviction.

Gabe knew he had won. Any number he threw out now would be it. "Eighteen," he said, his head cocking to one side. "Final offer."

Sam swallowed hard, offering Castiel one last look of uncertainty before placing his hand carefully into the Trickster's. The young man gasped at the feeling—like pinpricks all over his skin—and shuddered as the sparkling amber light encompassed both their hands, growing brighter and seeming to stick them together like glue.

Suddenly, Gabe tugged on Sam's hand, pulling him so that their faces were barely an inch apart. "I don't usually partake in demon tradition," he said in a low voice, his gaze flitting to the young man's lips, "but I'm willing to try just about anything at least once."

Before Sam realized the implications of the words, the Trickster's mouth was on his.

AN: Whoa...I _did _mention there would be Sam/Gabe, right? Oi, I hope so. Well, until the next chapter, Gators! Catch you all on the flip side.

P.S. I have a question.... I'm starting a new Supernatural fic called _Blinded_ (the title may need some work), and I need your opinion. What do you think?

_Sam sat up-right against a splintered beam, his teeth grinding as lightening pain throbbed through darkness--his new home. He listened to the sounds of the demented doctor's wailing as Dean dissected him piece by piece, the tearing of flesh, the sawing and breaking of bone, the _snick snick snick _of clipped stitches. He could hear everything, could smell the stale scent of dusty blood pumped through ancient veins far past their time, could feel his brother's satisfaction rolling off of him in waves and crashing against sweat-slicked skin, could taste rage and horror and wondered if it was his or Dean's--or if it belonged to both of them. The only thing that Sam couldn't do--was _see. _Sam was blind, his eyes ripped from their sockets as he'd lain on some primal medical table by a doctor who looked very much like a replica of Frankenstein's monster. Dean had been too late to stop it, but he was doing his best to make up for it now. _

_And Sam was glad to hear such agony._

It basically starts in the second-to-last episode of season 3, when Sam and Dean come across that doctor that slices and dices people to stay immortal. In the series, Sam's eyes are almost taken by this doctor, and I wondered what would happen if Dean had been too late to stop that from happening. What if Sam had to live blind? So... Any thoughts? Suggestions? I have quite a bit of a first chapter written out, and I would probably follow the series up until some point in season 4 (just tweak it a little to fit my needs...).

Thanks for reading! Later, Gators!


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